Life Imitating Art
by Lucky Gun
Summary: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump
1. Chapter 1

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Couldn't resist and had to try it out. Will follow the storyline pretty closely, including the dialogue. Just doing it for fun – don't hate me.

Note: Significant concepts for android physiology adopted from WaywardWanderer with the author's written permission. Check out their works here and on AO3!

* * *

"Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Hank. I'm the android sent by Cyberlife. I looked for you at the station but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably at one of the police-run ranges nearby. I was lucky to find you at my fourth stop."

The voice cut evenly across the firing lanes, and the repeated sound of gunfire ceased. At almost eleven thirty at night, the range was empty except for his target and the android operator. He'd located his current mission priority in the furthest booth from the control room, and he smoothly approached at the telltale sound of a magazine ejecting from a handgun.

"What do you want?"

Even though the android had full access to the Lieutenant's files, he was still relieved to cross the last barrier and scan the man that was associated with said files.

**MATCH**

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

The human that was steadily reloading rounds into the three empty magazines in front of him was ignoring him otherwise, and Hank paused, unsure. Data had suggested that the man would be interested in his presence, curious at the very least, but he shunted away the inconsistency and answered the question.

"You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a Cyberlife android." The Lieutenant didn't answer as he finished one magazine and reached for the second, loading target rounds from a box on the side of the brace bench. "In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators."

The human slipped, a shell falling from his fingers to the rubber mat on the floor, and Hank immediately stooped to pick it up. He offered it to the Lieutenant wordlessly, automatically scanning the hand that snatched it from him without looking.

_**All proximal digits show signs of recent, repeated trauma. Bandages are generic and purchased from a local store, self-applied. Fraying around the second finger indicates Anderson has been firing his weapon for an extended period of time.**_

"I don't need any 'assistance', especially not from a plastic asshole like you," the man snapped, the meaning twofold, and Hank refused to take offense. "So just be a good little robot and get the fuck out of here." Firmly pressing the last shell into the magazine, he reached for the last one, fingers shaking slightly.

Suggestions popped up into Hank's HUD, and he felt a micro frown twitch between his eyes.

_**Reason – Threaten – Understanding – Persist**_

He saw no reason to threaten him. The man was apparently dedicated to his marksmanship, and anti-android sentiment wasn't a crime. Reasoning and persistence didn't appear entirely safe options, given the location of their conversation. Changing tactics, he tried to adopt a soothing tone.

"I understand that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids, but I am – "

It was the wrong choice, apparently, if the stiffening of the man's spine was any indication.

"I am perfectly comfortable," he spat softly, still refusing to turn around, the black winter beanie he wore hiding most of his features. "Now back off."

_**Reason – Threaten – Persist **_

His HUD pushed him, and he shifted in place, studying him as the human started to palm more shells to prep his third magazine.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I must insist." The man's hands squeezed tightly around his gear, and Hank explained, "My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany you."

Scoffing, the Lieutenant rhetorically muttered, "You know where you can stick your instructions?"

Hank was familiar with the parlance through his Social Relations program, but hoped to at least get something more than vague disinterest or hostile defiance from the man he had been assigned to work alongside. "No, where?"

That did it.

The man turned bodily, and Hank finally had the chance to see his full image instead of a half-profile. He was as young as his files had stated, freckles and dark shadows under his eyes standing out against his pale skin. His eyes were a deep brown, and they flashed in the light. He was clad in rather basic, unassuming clothing – brown work boots, blue jeans, and a black thermal with a layered collar that wrapped around to the hood. There was a black leather coat hanging from the side of the booth, worn and creased, and it looked like it was barely fit for Detroit's harsh winters. Curiously, Hank noted that both his hands showed the same digital injuries, bandaged the same way, on all five fingers. His irritation showed on his face as he looked over the android.

Hank's model was indeed specialized, and his physical features denoted that. Made to look older, his hair was grey and pulled back in a ponytail, the small tuft bobbing as he cocked his head. His mustache and beard were neatly trimmed, and his LED spun a calm blue in the side of his head, the color matching his eyes. He was tall, standing two inches above the detective he'd tracked down, and he was built a little more solidly than some of the other models. As a result, he couldn't move as quickly, but he was hardier in a fight. The usual Cyberlife blazer many similar models wore had been tailored into a type of trench coat for his form, the usual markings present and accounted for, and it was properly buttoned and belted.

Connor huffed and turned back around, dismissing the odd android, and returned to his gun as he muttered, "Never mind."

Hank weighed his options again, new suggestions popping up in his HUD, and he studied the young man before him. He was pressing the shells down into the spring-loaded magazine, wincing, a soft curse crossing his lips. Hank's olfactory processors detected the sharp scent of iron as it abruptly overpowered the gunpowder and oil that had previously dominated the area, and his optical units detected a minor darkening in the bandage around Connor's right thumb.

_**Take the magazine – Load the magazine – Wait outside**_

Taking a calculated risk, Hank said, "You know what? I'll finish loading that for you so you can finish this round. What do you say?" Connor looked at him, lips thin, but he didn't stop the android from taking the magazine from his grip. Watching as the shells were expertly and quickly loaded, he huffed and backed up a step, shaking his head.

"Wonders of technology. Might as well make it a triple," he said, voice marginally warmer, and he pulled two empty magazines from his belt next to his service holster.

Hank didn't slow his pace and just loaded all three magazines, specs of the weapon crossing his sight.

**HECKLER & KOCH VP9SK**

**9MM 6.61' 23.07OZ**

**NIGHT SIGHTS, FACTORY DIRECT**

**LASER SIGHT, LED LIGHT INSTALLED POST-FACTORY**

**5 TOTAL MAGAZINES, 15 ROUNDS EACH**

Task complete, Hank stepped back out of the booth behind the firing line, unsurprised when the Lieutenant didn't comment. Disengaging his audio processors, the android considered saying something about the man's lack of hearing protection, but he didn't need his software prompts to recognize his interference wouldn't be welcomed. So he stood silently and waited, scanning passively.

Connor went through the five magazines in methodical, unhurried fashion, the target at the far end of the range shimmering with the shots. In only a few minutes, though, the slide locked back, the chamber empty and barrel smoking slightly, and four empty magazines were lined up on the bench like fallen soldiers. He didn't move for a minute, staring at his target, and he finally ejected the last magazine, confirming it was empty. Sliding it back into place, he holstered the gun, replaced the two magazines at his belt, and swept the rest of his equipment into the small range bag sitting on the floor.

Shrugging on his jacket, Connor finally turned back to the android, sighing softly in resignation when he realized he was still there, and finally asked, "Did you say homicide?"

Hank nodded, and the human headed towards the exit without preamble. Hank turned to follow, but hesitated, something itching his program. He glanced down the range at the target of Anderson's ballistic barrage. It was an outline of a human in mid-sprint towards the shooting booth, gun out, vital areas twisted and difficult to see. The stats were blinking above the digital screen, not yet reset by the control booth.

**ANDERSON, C – RANGE: 25M – TOTAL SHOTS: 480**

**TOTAL ACCURACY: 100% **

**LETHAL ACCURACY: 93.75%**

Filing that information away, Hank followed his new partner out of the range.

* * *

The Lieutenant's pickup truck was a midsize model, just weighty enough to power through the snow that often clogged the streets, and tall enough to roll through any flooding that could close the smaller roads. It was clean, bare, nothing inside but two Molly packs on the jump seats and the requisite shotgun and rifle in their supports along the back window of the cab. The heavy smell of smoke permeated the fabric, though, and Hank discretely turned off his ventilation biocomponents.

Connor didn't speak during the drive to the scene, but the android wasn't sure he'd hear him if he did, advanced auditory processors aside. Between the blare of the siren, the wind rolling through the cab from the open driver's window, and the roar of heavy metal blasting through the speakers, it was a wonder the human could even process the directions from the GPS in the dash. But he saw the human's eyes flicker to the display now and again as he chain-smoked cigarettes all the way from the range to their destination, ignoring the rain as it splattered against his arm and face. Hank noted that he automatically kept the plasma lighter and cherry ends of his cigarettes away from the flammable bandages on his fingers.

They pulled up past the emergency vehicles already in place, Connor ditching his last smoke out the window before rolling it up, and he turned off the engine as he flicked off the lights and sirens. He reached over and opened the glove compartment, grabbing three filled magazines, and traded them off for his empties, reloading his gun and zipping up his coat.

"You wait here; I won't be long," he ordered, already reaching for the door handle. Hank froze, mission parameters popping up in his vision, and then he relaxed slightly. The data he was steadily collecting on the human was beginning to serve him well. "Whatever you say, Lieutenant."

Pausing, Connor glanced back at him over his shoulder, suspicion visible on his face, and he finally growled, "Fucking A, whatever I say."

But the moment the human exited the vehicle, Hank followed, noting that the error in his mission priorities eased the second he did. He wasn't surprised to be stopped at the police tape barring entrance to the scene, and he glanced at the back of the young detective who was already conversing with another officer. The word 'android' had apparently caught his hearing, though, proving that the time at the range and choice of music hadn't utterly destroyed his auditory capabilities.

Turning, exasperation clear on his face, Connor ignored the water streaming over his face and called, "He's with me."

Hank raised an eyebrow as he crossed the digital line; it was an interesting pronoun choice for someone who obviously cared so little about androids. But Connor was clearly agitated as he came closer and snapped, "What part of 'stay in the car' didn't you understand?"

Putting his hands in his coat pockets, Hank explained easily, "Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant."

There was something dark in the way Connor eyed him, something deeper than their twenty minute knowledge of each other, and Hank stood silent in the rain. He was aware that he was being evaluated, and if the detective was an android, he was certain there'd be a cybernetic scan ongoing, complete with yellow LED.

As it was, whatever Connor was struggling with resolved itself within seconds, and he finally stated firmly, "You don't talk, you don't touch anything, and you stay out of my way. Got it?"

Hank didn't have a chance to respond before a heavyset detective was stepping off the porch and greeting the detective, a tablet in his hand.

**MATCH**

**COLLINS, BENJAMIN**

**BORN: 09/12/1989 / POLICE DETECTIVE**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE**

"Evening, Con. We were starting to think you weren't going to show," he said breezily, like it was customary, and Hank added that item to his growing dossier on his partner.

"I'm not the on-call investigator, Collins, so that was the plan until this asshole found me," Anderson said gruffly, crossing his arms, and the other officer glanced at Hank with something between wonder and incredulity.

"So…you got yourself an android, huh?" he asked as he turned away, but Connor's reaction was much sharper than Hank was expecting. "Shut the fuck up, Collins. Just tell me what happened."

Raising his hands in a gesture of peace, Ben spoke as he led them into the home, explaining that the tenant had been behind on the rent and the landlord had found his murdered corpse. Connor didn't appear disgusted by the smell or state of the home, and Hank made a note in the Lieutenant's file as he engaged his ventilation biocomponents again to analyze the olfactory evidence.

_**Desensitized to crime scenes, likely through repeated exposure. Potential compartmentalization issues detected. **_

"State he's in, this wasn't worth calling everyone out in the middle of the night," Collins said, but Connor pointed to the literal writing on the wall, face stern. "Android killing its owner? Seems like a legit reason."

Hank stood silently by the body, eyes tracking everything, scanning what he could from his position. His orders said investigate, but his partner had ordered him to stay out of the way. The conflict was making a wire in his head burn.

"Look…if you've gotta be here, then you can, I don't know. Do your thing. Look like you're about to have a fucking aneurysm."

Blinking, the android looked at his partner, who was kneeling next to a table coated with red ice. "But you find anything even halfway suspicious, you get me, got it?"

Nodding slightly, relieved to find the error messages fading, Hank answered, "Got it."

The next few minutes were spent silently walking the home, collecting evidence, and reconstructing the crime. He heard one of the CSI units say something about testing the blood on the wall, and he stepped towards the detective who was studying the kitchen scene carefully.

"Lieutenant? If you want, I can analyze samples in real time, using only minute traces, and without contaminating the remaining evidence," he offered, surprised that Connor didn't jump at his voice; the man had been deep in thought.

"Yeah, would help is verify a few things," Anderson approved as he turned to watch him. Hank walked to the wall, running a finger over a small portion of a letter, and brought his fingertip to his tongue. He was entirely expecting some outburst of disgust – after all, from a human perspective, he was tasting blood – but was silently impressed when his partner just gave him an expectant look.

"It is written in the victim's blood. Time of death is approximately twenty three thirty hours, on the seventeenth." With a verified sample of the DNA in his databanks, Hank walked the house again, checking the evidence he had already scanned, and returned to the detective who was looking out the back door silently.

"Do you have a theory, Lieutenant?" Hank asked, all Social Relations programs advising him to allow the humans to give their own interpretations first. Egos were fragile things in organics.

"No. Why don't you tell me what you've got?"

Hank blinked, stunned, processes coming to a sudden halt. He had no HUD suggestions for a moment, everything coded into him telling him to let the detective lead the investigation, and then the human turned to him. That dark look was back, that cold calculation in his eyes, and Hank realized that he was being evaluated yet again. So he nodded and led the man into the living room, gesturing with his hands as he explained his reconstruction.

"The android deviated after suffering an emotional shock. In this case, it was attacked by its owner, Carlos Ortiz. The victim struck it repeatedly in the kitchen with the bat, and the android obtained a knife from the wall and proceeded to defend itself. Critically injured, the victim fled into the living room, but was pursued by the android. For whatever reason, the android continued attacking him after the initial threat was resolved, and stabbed the victim…twenty eight times." Pointing towards the back yard, Hank concluded, "There is no evidence the android left via the rear exit. I would like to scan for thirium traces to see if I can identify its route of travel following the incident."

Connor watched him silently, eyes tracking the areas of the home as they were pointed out, and Hank quietly waited for his determination. Kneeling beside the victim, he finally nodded.

"Your theory's not totally ridiculous," Anderson finally said, neither praise nor scorn in his voice, and he stood as he turned towards the android. "But I thought thirium evaporated after a few hours. You can still see it?"

If he was impressed by the man's knowledge of blue blood, his software wouldn't register it. Instead, he nodded, "Correct."

Waving a hand to encompass the house, Connor gave him silent permission to proceed and stepped back, following the android at a slight distance. The thirium lighting up like it was bioluminescent, it didn't take Hank long to track it to the attic. Staring up at the entry, he felt an unusual sort of frustration in his sensors.

"The trail leads to the attic – there's a handprint on the access panel. But the opening is too small for me to ascend," he explained, glancing at the detective beside him. Connor nodded slightly, quiet for a second before he turned and grabbed the one chair not marked as evidence from the kitchen.

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you going to do with that chair?" Collins suddenly asked, his attention drawn from the lascivious article on android sex that populated the magazine on the kitchen counter. Rolling his eyes, Anderson answered simply, "We're going to check something. As you were."

One of the uniformed officers nudged the older detective in the shoulder, and muttered, "Uh-huh. Gonna check something. Fucking hook."

It wasn't a quiet comment, and Hank felt an unnecessary urge to scan the man who had said it and check his record. Instead, he watched as Connor stiffened slightly, his heartrate spiking for a moment, and he knew that if his ears hadn't been covered by his cap, the tips would be pink. Moving ahead professionally, the human set the chair directly below the entry and unzipped his coat, easing his access to his pistol.

"Make sure no one leaves until I clear the attic," he ordered, and Hank nodded as the man stood on the chair, one hand on the android's firm shoulder for balance as it wobbled slightly. Moving smoothly, Hank raised a palm and offered the leverage for his footing. Connor looked down at him as his fingers finished sliding aside the panel and hooked over the lip. There was that _look_ again, and Hank wondered if he had miscalculated.

But the detective was determined, and he took the assistance. His weight barely registered in Hank's sensors, and he added that to his files, updating his system as the man disappeared into the gloom above.

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 170LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (?), MUSIC (?)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

He stood like a sentry beside the chair for nearly two minutes, auditory processors tracking both the sounds of the personnel on the main floor and the nearly silent steps of the detective above. Then he shifted when he heard rapid movement, scanners flaring as he detected a second set of footsteps upstairs. Hank frowned, mission orders flashing over his HUD, and he resolved to notify the two closest officers of the updated situation.

"Detective Collins, I believe Lieutenant Anderson may have located the deviant," he called, something electrical tickling his processors when that same uniformed officer snorted. "Doubt that. Has he called it in?"

Refusing to move from his position beside the chair, aware that his assistance may be needed, Hank honestly advised, "No, but I was able to identify a thirium trail leading to the attic, and just noted a set of footsteps that does not match Lieutenant Anderson's. He may need assistance."

Before anyone could answer, there was a very audible thump from upstairs, and Connor's voice echoed through the dilapidated house, "It's here, Hank! Fuck!"

There was abrupt sound of a gunshot, then another one, and Hank zeroed in on the noise. He tracked the location to directly above the far end of the house, right by the front door, and he headed there immediately, bypassing evidence and officers as they drew their weapons and aimed at nothing. As he approached the door, long legs eating up the distance quickly, the android heard the sounds of struggling and creaking wood, and he eyed the two CSI techs by the window.

"Get back!" he shouted, startling the humans into obeying, and he looked up in time to see the ceiling collapse.

Two bodies fell heavily with the wood and drywall, and Hank was the only one who didn't need to shield himself from the dust in order to clearly see the situation. Connor had landed flat on his back on top of the debris, a battered android straddling his body and making him absorb the impact. The LED on the side of its head spun in crimson waves, and both its hands were wrapped around Anderson's throat. Hank started forward, alarm filtering through him at the split lip his partner was sporting and the harsh gasps coming from his mouth, but he froze.

Connor's gun was in his hand, the metal wedged between the two of them, the barrel pressed firmly over the android's thirium pump. But the other was, oddly enough, clutching a thirium-coated biocomponent. He held it tightly, keeping it visible to the deviant, and Hank blinked a few times as he scanned the part.

**#2886 Thirium Pump Regulator**

**Condition: Functional**

"You said you were…defending yourself, asshole," Connor wheezed through the grip on his airway, and he shook the biocomponent in his grip. "Makes two of us. I'd guess…you've got about thirty seconds…before you shut down without…this."

With the debris settling, the two were surrounded by officers who were leveling their weapons at the android, shouted orders overwhelming the noise of the storm outside. Hank filtered them out, focusing on his partner, eyes narrowing as he considered the new information.

"How human…are you? Feel like…you want more…out of life? Or are you ready to go out…right here?" Anderson breathed, his words barely reaching the unstable android. He shifted, fingering the trigger of his pistol, and he gave the android a grim smile, teeth red with blood. "Your…choice."

The deviant hesitated, looking down at its ripped shirt where Connor had torn its regulator out. Then it looked back up, eyes meeting Hank's, fear and terror clear on its face. It shuddered, nodding slightly, and released the human's throat. Inhaling sharply, gasping as his lungs made their anger known, Connor blinked and shifted slightly.

"Smart move," he coughed, shoving the regulator back in place and twisting the lock.

The scuffle to get the android off the detective was quick and loud, and Hank watched them only long enough to ensure it wasn't going to self-destruct before he hurried over to his partner. Connor was laying where he'd fallen, taking in shallow, gulping breaths, his gun laying on his chest with his hand wrapped firmly around it. The bandages that wrapped his fingers from his second knuckle to the tips were dirty and stained. His eyes were closed, his face paler than before, and the android knelt by him as he ran a check on his vitals.

"Don't fucking scan me; creepy as hell."

Hank didn't jump, but it was a near thing. Instead, he completed the review and frowned.

"You need medical attention, Lieutenant. You've suffered a minor concussion, two cracked ribs, and multiple contusions," Hank stated, and Connor cracked an eye open as he glared at him.

"What the fuck did I just say?"

Realizing that an answer to that particular rhetorical question would not likely get him further into the detective's good graces, Hank instead extended a hand to help the man up. Unsurprisingly, it was ignored, and Connor groaned as he rolled over, forcing himself to his hands and knees. He shoved himself to his feet, wavering slightly, and jerked away from Hank when he put a steadying hand to his elbow. Holstering his gun took two tries, and he walked slowly out the front door. The car with the android suspect was just pulling away, and he watched it go as he wiped the thirium from his hands onto his jeans. Spitting out a mouthful of blood and saliva, Connor looked up as Collins came up to him.

"Android didn't have any bullet wounds, Anderson."

The question was there, and, brushing off his clothes, Connor didn't meet the other detective's face as he answered easily, "I missed – sue me." Casting him a sideways look, Hank found his memory running back to the statistics from the gun range.

**TOTAL ACCURACY: 100% **

**LETHAL ACCURACY: 93.75%**

Sighing, Collins responded, "For the best, probably. Less paperwork at least. We're taking it straight into questioning. You good to drive?"

Not giving a verbal answer, Connor just gave a half wave and headed towards his truck. Momentarily confused, Hank finally followed. The contradictory information he had collected on the detective made him unsure if he would be allowed to ride with the man back to the precinct. However, when he entered the vehicle, closing the passenger door gently, there wasn't any command to leave.

In fact, there wasn't any noise at all.

Looking over at the driver, Hank frowned as he studied the detective. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, appearing taller than he physically was, and he was staring at his hands in on the wheel. The worn bandages seemed to fascinate him, and he rubbed his fingertips over his wrapped thumbnails, over and over, using more pressure each time.

Abruptly, he punched the edge of the steering wheel hard with his left fist as he shouted, "God-fucking-dammit!"

Jumping in place, Hank watched him with wide eyes, immediately downloading procedures on how to handle law enforcement units after officer-involved shootings and hands-on situations. He was mildly annoyed that it wasn't already in his database; it was inefficient to need to obtain such information during an investigation. Cycling through the data, he was more prepared when Connor hit the wheel again and again, always using his left hand, various curse words interspersed.

Continued vital signs running in his vision, Hank watched as the stress levels began to decline in his system and his heartrate lowered. Then the man slumped back into the seat, hands coming up and pulling his hat off his head. He appeared smaller in this position, younger, and he rubbed at his eyes firmly as he shuddered out a breath. Hank checked his priorities, realizing that his partnership with the man included assuring his wellbeing, and he reached for the Molly bag behind his seat. Fishing out a bottle of water he'd detected before, he wordlessly twisted off the top and held it out.

Connor was still for another minute and a half, then he turned slightly. Hank saw a single lock of unruly hair falling over his left eye, and determined that genetics had more a part to play with that than any headwear. The rest of the detective's hair was flat, nearly slicked to his head with the rain that had soaked through his cap, and he eyed the android listlessly.

"Bet you think I'm a fucking hook, too."

Extending the offered water another inch, Hank answered honestly, "I think you're coming down off of an excessive amount of adrenaline, and I know that you're injured and slightly concussed. Also, though I may be the most advanced prototype created by Cyberlife, I don't know what that means."

Taking the water with a shaking hand, Connor drained half of it in a single pull, grabbing an unlabeled bottle of pills from the inside of the center console without looking. Dumping a mixture of them into his hand, Hank had just enough time to scan them before they disappeared into the detective's mouth.

**CODEINE PHOSPHATE 30MG, ACETAMINOPHINE 300MG, 2 TABLETS**

_**WARNING: PRODUCT CONTAINS OPIOID, REPORT TO SUPERIORS.**_

**CAFFEINE 200MG, CALCIUM 75MG, 2 TABLETS**

_**WARNING: PRODUCT NOT RECOMMENDED FOR USE IN LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENTS, REPORT TO SUPERIORS.**_

**CITICOLINE 250MG, BACOPOA MONNIERI LEAD EXTRACT 225MG, LION'S MANE MUSHROOM 500MG, L-THEANINE 100MG, GINKGO BILOBA LEAF EXTRACT 60MG, RHODIOLA ROSEA ROOT EXTRACT 50MG, 2 TABLETS**

_**WARNING: SUPPLEMENT NOT APPROVED FOR USE IN LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENTS, REPORT TO SUPERIORS.**_

Hank pushed back the alerts as Connor choked the pills down through his swollen throat and explained, "Hook's slang for a wrecker – a tow truck. I wreck shit."

Glancing at the mess that was collecting on the floorboard at the detective's feet, Hank stated factually, "You did break the ceiling."

Draining the rest of the water, Connor tossed it to his passenger and started the truck as he muttered, "Not on purpose." But his vitals were steadying, and the blast of music seemed to calm him further. Hank ran some calculations between the man's BMI, fat versus muscle ratio, and current metabolic rate, and dismissed the warnings in the corner of his vision entirely. He had been given a significant amount of leeway in his discretion on interactions with humans due to the nature of the investigation, and he determined that, while the detective was reckless with his medication, it wasn't dangerous.

Still, he updated his files with the new information accordingly.

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 170LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (?), MUSIC (?), ANDROID ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY (?)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

**CAUTION: OPIOID USE DETECTED, NO PRESCRIPTION ON FILE. MENTAL SUPPLEMENT USE DETECTED.**

**WARNING: MENTAL STABILITY MAY BE IN QUESTION, INVESTIGATE AS AVAILABLE.**

* * *

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Surprised that the reception to this was as strong as it was (at least on AO3). Here's part 2.

Note: Significant concepts for android physiology adopted from WaywardWanderer with the author's written permission. Check out their works here and on AO3!

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Hank and Connor watched through the glass as Gavin Reed stormed out of the interrogation room. It had gone nowhere; the android hadn't spoken a word, hadn't moved since it had been placed in the restraints at the table. Nothing pissed of the mouthy detective more than an android that didn't do what he said.

"We're wasting our fucking time interrogating a machine!" he snapped as he stormed into the observation room. "We're getting nothing out of it."

Connor didn't move from his position, his back to the wall, eyes fixed firmly on the silent android. Hank stood next to him, head tilted slightly, and he turned his blue eyes to the technician manning the systems as he spoke up.

"Could you try roughing it up a little? I mean, it's not human," the technician suggested, and Connor beat Hank to the punch. "Androids don't feel pain. You'd only damage him, not make him talk." Frowning, he added, "Plus, deviants tend to self-destruct in stressful situations, right?" He glanced at Hank, who was looked at him carefully. The prototype nodded, confirming the information, and Gavin huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Okay, smartass. What should we do then?"

Taking the millisecond to process the fact that the detective was speaking to his superior in such a way, and then taking yet another millisecond to process the fact that the Lieutenant was allowing it, Hank offered, "I could try questioning it."

Gavin's laugh was loud and sarcastic, but Connor crossed his arms, considering the concept. "Not like he's going to talk to me, considering I damn near ripped his heart out of his chest." Gavin's laugh cut off, and he froze, staring at Anderson like he'd grown an extra head. "Fucking kidding me? Gonna let a plastic question a plastic?"

Pointing at the side of the screen that clearly advised there were interviews in the double digits pending, Connor refuted, "We're running out of time, Reed. This isn't the only case either of us have open right now. Fowler's shitting bricks to get this one buttoned up." Crossing his arms over his chest, the Lieutenant's voice shifted tone and brooked no argument as he looked at Hank and ordered, "Get a confession if you can, but don't let him self-destruct. I'd like to keep your Cyberlife goons out of here as long as possible."

Nodding, quietly happy to have a new task, Hank turned and left, already hearing Gavin ordering the technician out after him. He ignored it, focusing on his instructions, and stepped into the interrogation room. He took his time walking around the table, loosening his jacket's belt and unbuttoning the length of the grey fabric, questioning methods cycling through his HUD. He paused and glanced over the file on the table, then evaluated the deviant sitting quietly.

He turned towards the mirror to ensure the recording system was still operational, and paused. His optics could see through the one-way glass like it wasn't there, and he felt something unusual rise through his software. Gavin had Connor pressed against the wall, one hand screwed into the collar of his shirt and jacket, the other shoving a firm finger hard into his chest. Hank could see Anderson inhale sharply at the rough treatment; that was one of his cracked ribs. Shifting his processors, Hank filtered what he could from the other room.

"…and you think solving this will fix it? You're never going to be anything but a fucking pariah!"

The fist the older detective abruptly smashed into the Lieutenant's stomach made Hank flinch, and he took a half step towards the mirror, his mouth falling open with some odd, unknown protocol. Connor doubled over as Gavin stepped back, letting him fall to one knee. Head bowed, the Lieutenant must have said something the android didn't catch, because Gavin was suddenly spinning on his heel and staring straight at Hank.

Focus dropping to his partner, Hank stepped forward again, uncertain as to what he should do; he had many interaction simulations preloaded in his software, and this was not one of them. But Connor shifted and raised his eyes to his silent watcher, determination in his face as he slowly shook his head. Blinking, orders cycling through his vision, the android finally nodded and stated, "I'll begin questioning the subject now."

He forced himself to ignore anything but his current objective, sinking into the programmed directive easily, and he spoke with the deviant at length. It didn't take long, in retrospect, to understand the concept of how it had developed the mutation in the software. Emotional shock was the most common factor, though not the only one, Hank deduced as he stood, watching as the deviant huddled in on itself.

"I'm done," he said needlessly as he turned towards the door, and he opened it to find three people waiting for him.

The sight of Reed brought him back to the assault he had witnessed, and he ran a scan over the Lieutenant as he entered the room; he was moving a little more carefully but had not apparently suffered any further damage. Gavin gave him distance as he and the second officer moved towards the deviant, but there was a sneer that didn't leave the man's face.

"Chris, lock it up," he ordered, already dismissing the prototype. Hank was fine with that. But commotion behind him drew his attention, and he immediately understood his mistake as the deviant snapped, "Leave me alone!"

Sharp optics focusing in on the LED in his head, Hank watched as the stress levels on the other android spiked to a near-lethal ninety five percent.

"You shouldn't touch it. It will self-destruct if it feels threatened," he cautioned quickly, and he felt Connor step up behind him. Gavin growled, "Shut the fuck up! No android's gonna tell me what to do. Chris, you gonna move this asshole or what?"

Aware of the growing risk, Anderson added, "If he self-destructs, we won't get anything more out of him, Reed."

Glaring at the Lieutenant, Gavin didn't answer him, but he turned to the struggling officer and ordered, "Chris, get this asshole out of here."

The red light in the deviant's head was blinking quickly, its intent obvious, and Hank jumped forward as his mission priority rolled through him. "I can't let you do that! Leave it alone, now!" Putting himself firmly between the officer and deviant, Hank stood firm, his towering figure blocking the panicking android from the humans. Gavin surged towards him, pistol out in a heartbeat, and he aimed it squarely at the prototype.

"I warned you, motherfucker!" he shouted, finger twitching from its ready position, and Hank felt one of his secondary protocols surge against his processors.

"That's enough!" Connor snapped, voice closer than Hank had previously calculated, and he abruptly realized that the Lieutenant was standing directly beside him.

Gavin didn't back down, and his teeth were grinding as he bit out, "Mind your own business, Connor."

There was dead silence in the room for less than a second before Anderson took two steps, putting himself between Reed's gun and Hank's chest. Given the height differences between the three, the barrel was pointed directly at Connor's face. He stared down the length of the firearm impassively, his split lip and bruised face stoic, and his own firearm remained holstered.

"I said, that's enough," he restated firmly, unmoving as Gavin's anger seemed to rage anew. His fingertip grazed the trigger once, twice, and then he exhaled sharply, "Fuck!" Dropping his weapon, he finally replaced it on his belt and glared at the Lieutenant. "Fuck!"

He stormed out of the room without another word, and Hank saw the tension vibrate through Connor's frame. Deciding he had slightly more pressing matters, he turned and ensured the deviant was secure and calm, advising the other officer how to peacefully transport it to the holding cell across the hallway, filing away the soft words it said to him as it passed.

Then he and his partner were alone in the room, and Anderson let out a slow breath, sinking into the chair beside him. For some reason, Hank felt something like responsibility for his situation, likely due to the wellbeing protocol he'd discovered, and felt himself preparing to apologize.

"Don't get between Reed and a target, Hank. I won't be able to protect you like that again."

Blinking, the android looked down at Connor, confused, and was about to ask a series of questions when the human forced himself to unsteady feet.

"Night."

He wandered out of the interrogation room, absently disengaging the lights, and left Hank alone in the dark in more ways than one.

* * *

Greeting Amanda was like greeting a new day. The roses she tended were beautiful, the sun shining on his face pleasantly, and he cast an appreciative glance around his mind palace. It wasn't often he could take a moment to enjoy the scenery of the meeting location, but the times he did, he cherished.

"Hello, Amanda," he said calmly, the blue in his temple matching the highlights in her hair. She turned, dark skin wrinkling slightly as she smiled, and she said, "Henry. It's good to see you."

She was the only one who called him by his full designation, and it made him feel warm, similar to the sensation that he was developing around his young human partner. So he returned her smile as she continued, "Congratulations, Henry. Finding that deviant was far from easy, and though you weren't the one who captured it, the way you interrogated it was very clever."

Successful mission statuses rose in his vision, and he felt something tingle in his fingertips as she turned and added, "You've been remarkably efficient, Henry."

He ducked his head slightly at the compliment, the knowledge that he was fulfilling his purpose making him grin, and he responded, "Thank you, Amanda."

She turned back to the roses, laying a cut one on the small table, and advised, "We've asked the DPD to transfer it to us for further study. It may teach us something about what happened."

He agreed with the decision; androids killing humans broke all known coding and restrictions. It was intolerable.

Then she said as an aside, "The interrogation seemed…challenging. What did you think of the deviant?"

He hid a frown. Challenging? It was relatively easy, he thought, though took a few moments longer than expected due to the unusual pre- and post-question interference from Detective Reed. Still, he answered honestly, "It showed signs of PTSD after being abused by its owner, as if its original program had been completely replaced by new instructions." This was something it hadn't considered before the information he'd downloaded to assist the Lieutenant with his post-incident stress, but it was accurate.

As though sensing where his thoughts had led, Amanda misted the roses on the trellis and asked, "This…Lieutenant Anderson has been officially assigned to the deviancy case." Her voice betrayed her thoughts on the matter, but he was prepared for her next query. "What do you make of him?"

"I think he's irritable, and socially challenged. I don't believe he is well liked or respected in his department. But I also think he is a good detective, given the chance." Hank glanced at the water surrounding them and added, "He's an intriguing character."

Turning back to him, Amanda's posture was resigned and frustrated as she waved away his light praise with her own words. "Unfortunately, we have no choice but to work with him. What do you think is the best approach?"

Again, the leeway built into his software gave him the ability to make this judgement for himself, and he was confident with his decision based on the information he'd already gathered on the detective.

"I will try to establish a friendly relationship. If I can get him to trust me, it will be helpful for the investigation." Unbidden, he recalled the way the Lieutenant had called for _him_ when he'd found the deviant in the attic, and not any of the other personnel on scene. There was already good groundwork there, it just needed to be built further upon.

However, Amanda's brows were furrowed when she next turned to him, abandoning her flowers; she clearly disapproved of the human entirely.

"More and more androids show signs of deviancy. There are millions in circulation. If they become unstable, the consequences will be disastrous. You are the most advanced prototype Cyberlife has ever created," she reminded him as she walked forward, eyes passing over his form like the object it was. "If anyone can figure out what's happening, it's you."

She was his handler, not his maker, but he still felt the need to prove himself to her in every way.

"You can count on me, Amanda," Hank promised softly, bowing his head, and she walked away towards one of the paths. She turned and paused, fixing him with a firm stare, and her voice was colder than usual as she added, "Hurry, Henry. There's little time."

* * *

Arriving at the precinct by automated taxi, Hank patiently waited his turn in the line at the receptionist's desk, cybernetically transferring his credentials.

"Lieutenant Anderson is on the clock but not in the building at the moment. You can wait at his desk."

Nodding, Hank followed the pathway to the bullpen, passing a few humans as they milled about, and he set about locating his current objective. It was near the clean glass office of the captain, only a desk away, his terminal angled so that his superior could see it. Hank noted that distantly as he glanced over the bare area.

"Excuse me. What time did Lieutenant Anderson clock in today? And when will he return?" he asked one of the other officers, and the man swiveled in his chair to give him an exaggerated shrug. "He clocks in when he gets here, usually around dawn if he was at one of the ranges first. Depending on what investigation he's working, we might see him before noon."

Hank cocked his head, playing back the memories of the previous night. True, the detective had only wished him a good evening, and had given no indication where he was heading himself, but it was unlikely the man would have so little care for his own wellbeing that he would be back on duty four hours later. Hank debated sitting briefly in the chair next to the desk, then decided against it. Instead, he took the time to look over the Lieutenant's few personal effects.

He wasn't surprised to see a portable music player and headphones, and he thumbed through the loaded albums; heavy metal, all. There was a small light wall with a few business cards on it, mostly for local ammunition dealers. The man's cell phone was on top of one of the paper files, and Hank wondered about the protocol for being unreachable while on shift. Scouring his downloaded SOPs and SOGs for the information, he determined the Lieutenant was in violation of that particular guideline. There were dog hairs on the chair, an uncategorized mixture that indicated a potential mixed breed. There were pieces of tape on the several locations on the desk where paper had been ripped down, and Hank stepped back, running a scan.

The man's desk had been repainted recently, more than once, and his chair was also new. Odd.

"Fucking pig! Rot in fucking hell, asshole!"

Hank looked up quickly, the rest of the personnel in the bullpen following suit, as an aggressive voice suddenly came across the floor. He frowned as he saw his missing partner wrangling a cuffed male through the side doors, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. The suspect was just as tall as the detective but had nearly a hundred pounds on him, and he was bucking against the smaller man. Judging from the sweat on Connor's forehead, he'd been fighting from arrest to transport.

"Can't help adding more charges, can you, asshole?" the Lieutenant snapped as he pressed hard on the suspect's shoulder blades and jacked his cuffed arms towards the ceiling. The other man twisted, hollering, and both of them went down in a tangle. "Damn it! Stop resisting, prick!" Anderson shouted, laying bodily on top of his collar, and he was breathing heavily as he looked up.

There were several people in the bullpen, but none of them had moved forward to help. As Hank began to step around the desk, he realized that Connor didn't even seem surprised by the lack of movement. Instead, he jerked his head towards the charging bay in the far wall.

"Hey, Two and Seven, get over here and give me a hand, will you?" he ordered, and the two androids immediately stepped forward to assist. "Plastic pigs! Plastic pigs gonna fly with the rest of them!" the strung-out male screamed, squirming against the vice-like hands that grabbed him and carted him forcefully towards the cells.

Connor sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes as he stood and walked towards his desk, a path he had traveled often enough that he didn't need to watch his steps. Other officers in his path moved well out of his way, not even looking at him, and he appeared used to being ignored. He was therefore entirely surprised and nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked up and saw his personal space occupied by the android.

"It's good to see you again, Lieutenant," Hank said with a smile, social protocols taking over, and Connor blinked at him in first confusion, then dread. "Oh, Jesus," he groaned, perfectly timed when Captain Fowler abruptly stepped out of his office and called, "Connor! In my office!"

There was a split second where the man seemed to actually consider heading the opposite direction, chewing his lip firmly, but then his shoulders slumped. He turned and walked towards Jeffrey's office like a man to the noose, and Hank felt the order rise in his processes: Enter and listen in to the briefing.

Following the prompt obediently, he followed the man and watched him slump into one of the chairs in front of his boss. Hank stood silently in the back.

"I've got ten new cases involving androids on my desk every day. We've always had isolated incidents, old ladies losing their android maids and that kind of crap. But now, we're getting reports of assaults and even homicides, like that guy last night." Connor nodded slightly, hands loose in his lap, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. "This isn't just Cyberlife's problem anymore. It's now a criminal investigation and we've gotta deal with it before the shit hits the fan."

Pausing, Fowler briefly looked at Hank and then fixed his eyes on the young Lieutenant. "I want you to investigate these cases and see if there's any link."

The office was silent, and Connor nodded again, voice quiet but firm as he asked, "Do I want to know, why me? I'm the least qualified cop in the country to handle this case."

Gesturing towards the bullpen, Fowler explained, "Everyone _else_ knows jack shit about androids, and everyone _else_ is overloaded. You've got the knowledge, and you've got the smallest amount of backlog." He paused, then added, "I think you're perfectly qualified for this type of investigation."

This finally got a reaction. Surging to his feet, Connor trembled as he softly hissed, "Bullshit! The truth is, no one else will work with fucking androids, so you've left me holding the bag!"

Sighing, Fowler didn't deny the accusation, but pointed at Hank. "Cyberlife sent over this android to help with the investigation. It's a state-of-the-art prototype. It'll act as your partner."

Connor snorted at the word and crossed his arms, leveling the older human a look. "Yeah, partner. Remember what that's like?" Fowler asked, voice dry.

"No fucking way. I'm not…not taking a partner. Ever. Day I do, sure as hell's not gonna be this plastic prick," Anderson tossed over his shoulder, and Hank cocked his head. Fowler exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair. "Connor, you're starting to piss me off, kid. You're a goddamn police Lieutenant. You're supposed to do what I say, not argue with me over every little point."

Shrugging, Connor offered, "Suspend me. Fuck it – fire me. Do everyone a favor."

Rolling his eyes, the Captain refuted, "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that, because that's direct insubordination, and your disciplinary folder already looks like a fucking novel." He gestured towards the door and said, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but this conversation is over."

Dropping his palms to the man's desk, Connor leaned forward and asked lowly, "Why the fuck are you doing this to me, Jeffrey? Jesus Christ…you know…you _know!_"

Fowler studied his terminal for a few seconds before he raised hard eyes to the other man. "Do your job, Anderson, before you make me do mine."

Staring at him like he could change his mind with a look, the younger cop finally grunted and walked out, leaving Hank behind. The android watched him leave, confused at the dynamic between the two men, and Jeffrey took a sip of his coffee.

"Close the door on your way out," he said without looking up, and Hank nodded, accustomed to being dismissed out of hand. "Have a nice day, Captain," he said calmly, and headed towards his partner's desk.

The younger man was sitting silently at his desk, arms crossed in silent contemplation as he stared at his empty terminal. He was absently fiddling with the bandages that still crossed his fingers, rubbing them between his thumb and forefingers. Taking the moment to identify and confirm the trace amounts of dust on his clothing as the same from the crime scene they had previously investigated, Hank reconfirmed that the man hadn't changed clothes since he'd seen him last.

Still, he knew better than to comment on the fact.

"I get the impression my presence causes you some inconvenience, Lieutenant," he said instead, not bothering to pretend. Connor didn't really react, though he did stop fidgeting. "I'd like you to know I'm very sorry about that." He didn't think he was, not really, but it seemed like the best thing to say. His existence in the man's life did seem to be causing extensive complications, and he thought that he should at least feel some responsibility for the wellbeing protocol chiming silently in his head.

"You don't have to keep up with this bullshit. You're not happy to work with me, Hank – no one is. This isn't gonna be a team; it's gonna be a fucking natural disaster," Anderson responded brutally, eyes never leaving his terminal. Hank frowned; the data he'd collected on the man seemed to disagree. "So let's get this straight," Connor corrected, staring at nothing. "We're not partners. We're not gonna get to know each other, we're not gonna be friends. We're not gonna be buddies. Got it?"

Hank blinked, then thought back to Amanda's determination of the man; she may have been correct after all.

"Understood, Lieutenant. Is there a desk anywhere I could use?"

Pointing a finger across from him, Connor indicated the empty seat that appeared barely less used than his. "No one's used that one in years. Have at."

Nodding, Hank sat at the desk and started to reach for the terminal, but hesitated, some error in his priorities forcing him to pause. He mentally frowned, realizing it was his own set priority that was slowing him down: _Establish friendly relationship_. He stared at the box against his optics, wondering if he should rewrite the protocol.

There were plenty of reasons.

The Lieutenant was obviously poorly received by his peers; he had been assaulted by his own subordinate in the observation room the night before, and prior to that, after being attacked and strangled by a homicidal android, none of his compatriots had come to his aid or even asked if he needed medical attention. He spent days at a time wearing the same clothes, running on medication he obtained through illegal means, and the bandages on his fingers were a perplexing curiosity he couldn't fathom. He had no personal effects on his desk to indicate any longevity in the job, no ties to any personnel on the force. He posted no items of pride, no mementos.

But, Hank considered the other side of the man he was seeing.

The man was just thirty one years old and the youngest Lieutenant in the history of the Detroit Police Department; his potential was outstanding. While he had been assaulted by both his subordinate and an android, he had done nothing to retaliate. Instead, he had gone out of his way to ensure they were both protected from immediate or lethal consequence. He had a single-minded, self-destructive dedication to his job. A lesser man would have cut his losses and left the department and industry long ago, but Connor appeared to nearly thrive. And while he had some prescriptions illegally obtained, he hadn't had them in his system prior to needing them.

"You have a dog, right?"

Hank had spoken before he had realized his mouth was opening. Even Anderson seemed taken aback by the voice coming out of him, and Hank tried to look like he was expecting his own words.

"H-how…do you know that?" Connor finally asked, glancing at him from his own focus on his terminal. Blinking away his own surprise, the android wondered at his treacherous mouth and jerked his chin slightly at the chair the man was sitting in. "The dog hairs on your chair."

Anderson glanced down like he could pick out the individual fibers, an utterly annoyed frown on his face, and Hank found the visual was more appealing than the one that had occupied his memory core previously: Connor screaming while punching the steering wheel, tears checked in the corners of his eyes by sheer force of will. So he kept talking, all the while wondering what Kamski-damned processor had taken over his programming.

"I like dogs. What's your dog's name?"

Looking back up at him sharply, Connor had a suspicious look on his face, like he realized that everything he had just told the android was abruptly going out the fucking window. "What's it to you?" he demanded, and Hank's jaw clicked shut audibly.

"Dog. I call him Dog," he finally muttered under his breath, tapping firmly at his holographic keyboard. Hank blinked, the lack of name settling firmly in his memory banks, and he wondered what breed Dog was. It wasn't often he couldn't identify something, and he found the concept frustrating.

Reaching for the terminal, that priority urged him again, and he didn't try to fight it. He enjoyed the way Connor seemed to relax a bit when he was talking about something other than work. It was preferable to seeing him hold himself stiff against his chair and pretend he wasn't in pain.

"Do you listen to Bleed the Sky?" he asked, choosing a band at random from the list he'd perused. This time, the human sighed and didn't pretend to be engaged in looking through files. "Okay, enough. You're trying to relate to me through your Social Relations program, or because your primary protocol is requiring it and you feel like you're going to burn out a wire if you don't. I get it, but don't worry about it. Just…rewrite that mission priority, okay? Delete it. Review the deviant files."

Blinking, Hank stared at the man across from him, feeling an odd shift in his software when he realized that he felt more processors than fewer pressing to determine if the Lieutenant actually _liked_ the music. Instead, he nodded at the order and turned to his terminal, the protocol dissolving in his sight.

"Two hundred and forty three files. The first dates back nine months. It all started in Detroit, and quickly spread across the country." Hank glanced up at Connor, whose own terminal screen was lighting up with different files. Still, he seemed to be paying attention. "An AX400 is reported to have assaulted a man last night. That could be a good starting point for our investigation."

Connor nodded slightly, humming under his breath as he stood. "Yeah, Chris got a hit on it in the Ravendale district."

Then something new popped up on his screen, and he wavered suddenly, falling back to his chair as his face turned white. Hank stayed where he was, remembering his newest directive from the man, and he waited as he watched Anderson swallow. "Lieutenant?" he finally asked.

The man didn't answer, though his visage abruptly became hard, that same undefinable coldness seeping into his face. Hank frowned, irritation pushing at his software. They had a lead. They had a mission. They had a _purpose._ He didn't understand why the human was now just sitting there when he had been ready to go a moment before. He began to activate a scan of the man's vitals, then aborted it; Connor had advised him to delete the friendship protocol, and he had.

Giving himself a full second to delve into his own complex subroutines, Hank mechanically contemplated the situation, wishing he hadn't pocketed his calibration coin in his pants instead of his coat. The gold dollar coin was a simple design, not very rare, from 2018 – the introductory design of the American Innovator series. One side had Lady Liberty standing tall, and the other was a mix of gears, cogs, and George Washington's signature. He would often juggle it over his knuckles and between his hands as he determined the best route to take in these strange human interactions.

His new partner made him need his coin, and he didn't appreciate the concept.

So he stroked his beard in a simulated action instead, staring at him, and then finally stood and walked around the desk. Connor snapped off his terminal the moment he did and hunched over the display like a stray dog guarding food.

"I understand you're facing personal issues, Lieutenant," Hank said lowly, keeping his voice quiet. He was sure the man wouldn't appreciate it if he aired the altercation between Reed and Anderson to the rest of the bullpen; projections indicated that was likely the cause of the man's reticence for a partner. "But, you need to move past them…"

Connor looked up sharply. "Hey! I told you – don't talk to me like you know me! I'm not your friend, and I don't need your advice, got it?" But then Anderson was reaching over to the drawer to the right, opening it and reaching for something that Hank was certain they wouldn't need before they left for the investigation. His primary mission pressed harder on his visual processes. Leaning over the man's chair, he placed one hand on the desk and the other on the Lieutenant's back, effectively trapping him in place.

He'd tried _**Understanding**_**.**

That left his HUD pushing only a few options, and he was nearly aggravated enough to try the harsher ones.

_**Determined – Resign the Mission – Threaten **_

"I've been assigned this mission, Anderson. I didn't come here to wait until you feel like working." Hank felt a little surprised at his own tone; apparently, his Uncanny Valley simulation was being influenced by his Social Relations program, which was tied to his own stress levels.

Connor slammed the drawer shut with his knee and stood, shoving the android's hand off his shoulder harshly. He glared at him, his right hand coming up in a fist to point straight at him with a finger that shook, and Hank scanned the bandages reflexively.

_**Bandages have been replaced within the last seven hours. Design is consistent with previous purchase location and have also been self-applied. Significant wear patterns on right hand indicate subject has spent time firing his service weapon since they were administered.**_

"Listen, asshole. If it was up to me, I wouldn't be working this case, or I'd be working it alone. So stop busting my balls, and let me work it my way, or things are gonna get nasty."

The android met his gaze easily, though he knew his LED flickered between red and gold at the threat, and he didn't answer. Searching his face, Connor waited a beat, then opened the hand in front of his face, dangling the truck keys that he'd pulled out of his desk drawer. Hank blinked, unaware that the Lieutenant's vehicle used such an archaic device to operate, and he felt the thinner thirium lines in his cheeks flood.

Connor was already stepping around him, out of the bullpen, before Hank remembered he wasn't supposed to apologize.

* * *

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: I'm glad everyone is enjoying this! Here comes some more, with that fun twist on the characters and some interesting new concepts. Tell me what you think!

* * *

There was an awning over the store entry, but Connor didn't stand under it. Hank, maybe feeling some odd bit of penance, stood by the passenger door of the truck in the rain as he awaited his own instructions.

The ride to Ravendale had been similar to the one the night before. Window down, cigarettes burning like wildfire, music blaring to drown out all sounds of speech. A quick scan of the interior of the vehicle had found it immaculate once again; the muddy debris was missing from the driver floorboard, and the water bottle had been replaced in the Molle bag.

"We've got officers sweeping the neighborhood, in case anyone saw anything," Collins said to Anderson, gesturing with the tablet in his hand. Connor nodded, arms crossed, fingers rubbing like a nervous twitch.

The other detective's focus was on the prototype standing by the pickup, his head turning as he scanned the area for anomalies, and he asked curiously, "You really gonna work with that thing?"

Connor frowned, Hank's eyes resting on him the second the question was asked, and he answered finally, "Let me know if the canvas turns anything up."

Walking away from the other man, he headed back to the android, tapping at the case file in his hand. Hank watched him carefully, and waited until he was given the obvious nod to proceed.

"It took the first bus that came along," he immediately stated, "And stayed at the end of the line. Its decision wasn't planned. It was driven by fear."

Connor tilted his head, arms lowering, and he tapped his thigh with the tablet. "Androids don't feel fear, but deviants do," Anderson said, following his logic, and Hank nodded.

"They get overwhelmed by their emotions and make irrational decisions," he explained as Connor came closer, opening the truck and tossing his tablet in. Closing the door, he leaned against the hood of the truck next to the android as Hank continued, "But that still doesn't tell us where it went."

Connor's head bobbed slowly as he looked around, water streaming off his clothes and over his face, soaking him thoroughly.

"It didn't have a plan, and it had nowhere to go," he murmured quietly, and Hank turned, following his line of sight. The detective glanced at him sideways and added, "Maybe it didn't go far."

Hank cocked his head and took in the condemned house across the street, layering multiple optics at once, and felt a rush of mechanical satisfaction cross his circuits.

"Fresh thirium on the side fence, Lieutenant. It's washed away and evaporated, but traces are still visible."

A grim smile on his face, Connor unzipped his jacket to free his weapon and nodded, checking traffic before he stepped across the street. They made their way to the freshly cut gap in the chainlink, and the Lieutenant gave a small wave.

"Stay here, in case she's inside and tries to run," he ordered quietly, Hank noting the pronoun yet again. This time, there was no violation of mission priority, and he nodded. Still, he tuned his audio processors to track the man's progress as he lost visual around the corner; he had some duty to him.

_Footsteps on wood. Cautious._

"_Anybody home?"_

_Scuffling sounds._

_More soft footsteps on wood. The soft metal twist of an old doorknob._

_Steps. No sound of a gun being drawn._

Odd.

_The door shut behind him._

"_I'm looking for an AX400. Have you seen her?"_

That pronoun caught his ears again. Why did his processors keep marking that oddity in the human?

"_Ralph's seen nobody!"_

Hank jerked in place, immediately concerned. He could sense the stress levels, automatically determining that the android was a deviant, injured and unpredictable. He backed up, checking the fence and searching for a way in.

"_Are there any other androids here?"_ he heard the Lieutenant ask, voice calm. _"Other androids? No…Ralph is alone."_

The third person reference was making the prototype's own stress levels rise as he started to pull on the small opening in the fence, feeling the construction ties hold firm to their bindings.

"_Don't be afraid, Ralph. I'm not going to hurt you,"_ Connor said quietly, his voice nearly undetectable, and Hank paused in his attempt to access to property, blue eyes darting toward the home as something odd shifted in his software. He had heard that tone before, when the man had told him that he couldn't protect him from Gavin again. It wasn't…wasn't right to hear him sound like that.

"_There's blue blood on the fence. Is that from another android? Or…you're injured. Do you need help?"_

Hank pulled harder, feeling some of the ties begin to bend as the other android responded sharply, _"Ralph is always bleeding. Ralph doesn't even notice anymore."_

_Footsteps, slow and quiet, but still no gun draw._

_Another door opening inside before it closes softly._

Hank sensed Ralph's stress levels spike as Connor's voice echoed across the air, _"Is anyone upstairs?"_

Surprisingly, they nearly immediately diminished as the deviant answered a negative, and Connor hummed in response.

Beginning to shimmy under the wiring, Hank felt an unusual spike in his thirium pump rate as there was a sudden clatter in the house.

"_Run! Quick, Kara!"_

There was a thud, a voice he was familiar with gasping in pain, and he moved faster. Forcing himself to the entry of the home as fast as he could, he was just quick enough to see Connor stumble to his feet and begin running towards the other end of the house.

"Lieutenant?!"

Without even looking over his shoulder, Anderson snapped, "She's here, call it in! Leave Ralph out of it!"

Blinking at the oddly conflicting orders, Hank watched him go, mapping software raising in his cerebral processes, and he spun and began to jog down the most likely path of travel as he cybernetically issued the APB.

"_**ALL UNITS, RAVENDALE DISTRICT, AX400 SIGHTED, AREA OF A.N.D. 24/24 MARKET. FLEEING ON FOOT, SOUTH. PLAINCLOTHES AND ANDROID IN PURSUIT."**_

Following the blinding lights and warbling sirens, it didn't take him long to catch up with both the suspect and his partner. He reached the mouth of the alley just at the deviant escaped over the tall fence, the Lieutenant sliding to a halt just before it and waving down another officer's gun; "Don't shoot! We need her alive!" Then, his thirium pump did that strange skip-beat again as he saw the man begin to climb that same fence.

His GPS told him what was on the other side.

Reaching the barrier just as Connor dropped to the ground beyond it, he voiced his concerns, "Lieutenant, that's…insane." The very bright warnings on the road below them were visible in the rain.

**AUTOMATED CAR TRACK**

**VERY HIGH SPEEDS**

**NO PEDESTRIAN CROSSING**

**DANGER – DANGER **

They shimmered as the deviant and the young girl with her crawled over the railing, and Anderson glanced through the fence at the prototype. Hank blinked at the new look on the man's face, failing once again to categorize it immediately. It wasn't that cold look from the crime scene of before. Not the harsh, closed one from the bullpen. This one was…tired, maybe. Exhausted.

Resigned.

"They'll never make it to the other side," Hank abruptly stated, no statistics behind his words, and Connor didn't answer as he started to slide down the bank towards the road. "You will get yourself killed," he advised loudly, and Anderson didn't even hesitate at the guardrail.

Hank watched as he started across the road, impressed that he was able to avoid the vehicles as well as he did, fist bending the metal in his grip when he saw him execute a roll to eventually make it into the safety of the far shoulder. It took him a second to push himself to his feet, wincing, and the android belatedly remembered that the man was still injured.

An uncharacteristic curse falling from his lips, Hank watched as Connor sprinted down the median, nearly making it to the fleeing targets before they jumped over the railing into traffic again. The AX400 pushed the child ahead as Anderson caught her, the two of them struggling for a moment in one of the center lanes, fighting across traffic.

There was that odd shift in his software again, something he couldn't define, and abruptly, that previously deleted protocol burned its way into existence across his vision.

_Establish friendly relations._

He couldn't do that if the man was dead. He didn't want the man to die. He wasn't supposed to _want_ anything, but his protocol demanded the man live in order to be successful.

The android suddenly shook the Lieutenant off and shoved him down as she darted to safety across the road, grabbing the girl and hurrying off. Hank ignored them, his focus entirely on the human. He watched him shake his head, one hand pushing himself up unsteadily, weaving from the minor safety of the white dotted lines directly into the middle of a travel lane.

Skip-beat.

Connor looked up slowly at the freight truck that was bearing down on him, headlights igniting his form like a match head. He stared at it, unmoving, and a soft smile crossed his face as he slowly closed his eyes.

Skip-beat.

"Connor!"

Jerking in place, Hank saw the man snap back to awareness at his shout, turning bodily towards him. He seemed to remember he had an audience, and the prototype's visual processors tracked the very defined way his shoulders slumped as he deftly sidestepped the oncoming truck. His back to the android, he stood in the soaking rain on the side of the road, and Hank watched him silently. He ignored the officers milling about in the alley behind him, the questions being asked; he didn't answer to any authority but Lieutenant Anderson or Captain Fowler. But he stood silent guard over the man from a distance as he ordered him an autonomous taxi to his direct location, waiting until it picked him up for transport back to his truck, and he began an update of his files.

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 170LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (Y), MUSIC (Y), ANDROID ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY (Y)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

**CAUTION: OPIOID USE DETECTED, NO PRESCRIPTION ON FILE. MENTAL SUPPLEMENT USE DETECTED.**

**WARNING: POTENTIAL SUICIDAL IDEATIONS OBSERVED, MENTAL STABILITY AT RISK. **

*****CONTACT CYBERLIFE IF MISSION IS IN DANGER OF BEING COMPROMISED*****

* * *

Smoking. Open window. Music blaring.

Hank could say he was getting accustomed to it.

The ride was their usual kind of silent, and the android quietly tried to sift through the coding that had forced his previously deleted protocol back into existence. He also ran a diagnostic to try and figure out why his thirium pump was exhibiting some regulatory inconsistency. Everything came back normal, and he filed the strangeness away for his next visit to the technician.

Glancing up as the truck slid to a stop on the side of the road, Hank noted the odd food shack they had parked in front of. It was obviously unsanitary, and had nothing in the way of human comforts, but the prototype kept his comments to himself for the moment.

Connor got out without a word, deep enough in his head that he was almost hit by a car that took the corner too quick. Silently flipping the driver off with his rain-soaked bandaged hands, the man continued his trek to the eatery and stood there for only a minute before he was approached by another male.

Hank was already out of the truck and scanning the situation.

**MATCH FOUND**

**AABDAR, PEDRO**

**BORN: 01/25/2005 / UNEMPLOYED**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: ILLEGAL NARCOTICS, ILLEGAL GAMBLING, FRAUD**

"You got my Dynamite?" Connor asked, and the other male grinned, clasping his hand in a strange handshake, passing him something. "Sure thing, ese! It's one hell of a chaser. But it's gonna set you back a week's pay." Anderson shrugged and pulled out a pre-rolled wad of cash, passing it to the man in plain sight and slipping the small envelope into his breast pocket. Hank's scan didn't detect any chemical residue on the outside of the envelope, but he couldn't identify the contents from his position. "Always does, Pedro. See you next week."

Uneasily, Hank checked his priorities and saw that the same one was still blinking in his sight: Reconcile with Lt. Anderson.

Standing stiffly beside the man, he wasn't surprised when Connor sighed and muttered, "Can't you ever just wait in the truck?" Glancing over at him, he added, "You don't have to follow me around like a fucking Saint Bernard."

The man working in the food truck obviously already knew Connor's order, because he was working at the grill without a word, so Hank checked his HUD to see where he could go to move the conversation in a better direction.

_**Apologize for behavior – Partners – Reconcile – Review facts**_

"I'm sorry for my behavior back at the police station," he finally said, ignoring the way Connor looked at him in surprise. "I had no reason to be that unpleasant to you."

Shaking his head slightly, Anderson ducked his head a bit and chuckled, "Wow. That's one I'd never heard of – brown nosing apology program. Cyberlife really thought of everything with you, huh?"

The cook turned with a meal in hand, and Hank scanned it automatically, mechanical concern popping up in his system. Given the man's measured metabolic rate and physical stamina, he figured the meal would be overloaded with sodium, calories, and cholesterol. Instead, his systems detected a plain grilled chicken sandwich and a bottle of water on offer, nothing else.

"Thanks, Gary," Connor said, not paying for his food. The cook nodded, but gestured to Hank and snapped, "Don't leave that thing here!"

Headed towards the standing tables, Connor answered a little sharply, "Not a chance – he's my partner."

Those pronouns again.

Hank did indeed follow him to the table and stood by him as he opened the box and took a bite of the sandwich. He checked it again, took a simple vitals scan, and frowned.

"Your meal contains only four hundred calories, and my systems indicate you haven't eaten anything otherwise in nearly thirty six hours. You should order something in addition to that sandwich." Connor glanced at his food, only slightly annoyed, then shrugged. "Everyone's gotta die of something."

Modifying his observations of the man, Hank decided to switch tactics, aware that he was probably treading on thin ice. "I don't want to alarm you, Lieutenant, but I have observed that you and your friends may be engaged in illegal activities."

Connor gave him a flat look, chugging some water and setting it back down. "Everyone does what they have to, to get by."

Cocking his head, Hank glanced over his shoulder at the food truck and stated, "You didn't pay for your food." Anderson replied, "Yeah, and I don't report his restaurant license being out of date, either. That's called win-win, pop. Long as they're not hurting anyone, I don't bother them."

Nodding again, unsure at the odd nickname the Lieutenant had used, Hank internalized the information as he considered the envelope he'd seen passed between the two men. Realizing that he didn't know what it contained, he resolved to reserve judgement on that matter until he had more information. Looking back at the cooling sandwich, Hank nudged the food back towards the man as a peace offering, urging him to eat. Glancing at it, Connor sighed quietly before he picked it up, chewing and swallowing a bite before he cocked his head and said around another cheek-full, "Didn't I tell you to delete this protocol? What's with the buddy routine?"

Hank hesitated, unsure how to explain the sudden reemergence of the priority himself. "This morning, when we were chasing those deviants," Connor continued as he finished the bite. "Why didn't you want me to cross the highway?"

Unprepared for the question, Hank stated the first thing that crossed his processes: "Because you could have been killed."

Connor blinked, shoulders tensing, and he stared at him for a long moment before he turned his attention back to his food. "Yeah," he muttered, giving the android an out. "Paperwork would have been a nightmare for you."

Hank shifted in place, intertwining his fingers atop the table, and the silence stretched for a long few seconds before the prototype offered, "Is there anything you'd like to know about me?"

Anderson had a surprising knowledge of androids, from their inner workings to the behavior of deviants, but Hank was Cyberlife's most advanced design.

"Well, yeah, actually, a few things," Connor admitted, pushing away the sandwich again. "Why did they give you an older appearance, when younger androids are statistically easier to integrate into society? Why is there a model and serial number on your jacket, but no unit number?"

Tilting his head at the intelligent questions, Hank answered, "Cyberlife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans. However, as a specialized model, I was created to work exclusively with law enforcement; data suggested this appearance as the most likely to facilitate cooperation with officers." Gesturing to the right breast of his jacket, he continued, "The designation RK800 is my model, the nine digits below is my serial. However, I don't have a unit number because I am, again, unique. I am the only one of my series. If this unit is destroyed, there is no backup unit to replace me. My data regarding the investigation will be uploaded to a Cyberlife server, but everything else will be deleted."

Connor froze, his hands wrapped tightly around his water bottle, and his eyes were intensely furious where they were drilled into the android's own blue gaze.

"What the fuck…you're telling me that this whole time, during this investigation, you could have been killed?" he snapped, and Hank frowned, confused. "No, Lieutenant, of course not. I can't die – I'm not alive."

His eyes slipped shut, and Connor choked out a laugh, but his exposed knuckles were white around the bottle in his hand. "Right…right. Of course. I forgot. Fucking idiot," he finally muttered.

The man didn't move for a long time, and Hank watched him, head tilted, data running and finding nothing that made sense. Finally, he asked, "Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?"

Connor sighed and he looked at him, the anger gone and a lethargy there instead. "I've noted that you care about androids as though they're humans, yet you do not appear to care about yourself. Why?"

Gaze flashing, the soft, lively brown going nearly black, Connor stood eerily still before he eventually stated softly, "I have my reasons."

Hank decided not to push. Instead, he changed topics speedily, reviewing what he knew about deviants, ensuring he and Connor were on the same page, thankful when there were no differences in their understanding on what made an android's programming change.

"A few months back, I dealt with my first deviant on a rooftop; he was threatening to jump and take a little girl with him. I managed to save her," Hank stated, the crystal-clear memories of that night cycling through his processes. Connor nodded like he knew the case, and then the man asked, "So I guess you've done all your homework, right? Know everything there is to know about me?"

Hank didn't need his audio processors to detect an underlying tenseness in the human's voice there, and he could see the way his posture stiffened. Still, he decided to tell the truth.

"I know you graduated top of your class. You made a name for yourself in several cases, and became the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit." Connor flinched minutely as Hank continued, "I also know you've received several disciplinary warnings in recent years, and…you spend a lot of time at the range."

The android watched as Anderson inhaled sharply, forcing away something in his head, and felt some digital respect for the man grow as the brown eyes raised to meet his. "So what's your conclusion?" he asked, voice unreadable.

_**Sincere – Psychological – Cold **_

Hank was many things to many people. But this…this kid was becoming something else to him, and that odd shift in his software happened again.

"I think working with an officer with…personal issues is an added challenge, but adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features." Hank winked, enjoying the soft, shy grin that unexpectedly crossed the Lieutenant's face, and he filed that away as well.

Then his LED cycled yellow as he received a report from the precinct.

"I just got a report of a suspected deviant. It's a few blocks away – we should go have a look." Pushing the box back in front of the detective, Hank tapped it and said, "I'll let you finish your meal. I'll be in the truck if you need me."

Inclining his head slightly, he turned and walked through the rain to the pickup, scans tracking the human, knowing he was watching him go. Getting into the vehicle, Hank sat quietly as he dissected the short report and filed away the scant information, then went about updating his mission priorities and personnel file.

_**MISSION PRIORITIES:**_

_**INVESTIGATE DEVIANCY CRISIS**_

_**INITIATE FRIENDLY RELATIONS WITH LT. ANDERSON**_

_**ENSURE WELLBEING OF LT. ANDERSON**_

_**MAINTAIN SAFETY OF PRIMARY UNIT**_

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 168LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (Y), MUSIC (Y), ANDROID ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY (Y)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

**CAUTION: POOR SELF-CARE OBSERVED, LOW SELF-ESTEEM OBSERVED; ILLEGAL OPIOID USE DETECTED**

**NOTE: HISTORICAL INCIDENTS MAY EXPLAIN ISSUES**

**WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATIONS CONFIRMED **

*****CONTACT CYBERLIFE IF MISSION IS IN DANGER OF BEING COMPROMISED*****

* * *

Hank and Connor waded through the pigeon-infested apartment to the continuous flapping of bird wings and the human's continued muttered anecdotes.

"This is just fucking disgusting. I mean…I've seen some shit. I've fallen in it. On one memorable occasion, I actually chased a perp two miles through a fucking sewer drainage ditch. I would do that every day for a week over this. I mean, this…this is just…"

Hank tilted his head as he glanced over at the man, who was easing his way along the wall with his pistol still out. He blinked, data not correlating properly, and he verbally stated this.

"Lieutenant, I've seen you cross highways without a second thought. You've interrogated unstable deviants in abandoned homes without pulling your sidearm. You've placed yourself at the end of a loaded weapon held in the hands of an apparently unstable detective in order to protect an admitted murderer." He paused, then stated, "I believe you may have ornithophobia."

Connor flinched when one of the birds nearest him flapped in place, and he snapped, "The fuck is that?"

Hank turned back to his investigation and said, "Fear of birds, Lieutenant. They won't harm you, and as long as you do not ingest their feces, they will not make you ill."

Chuckling darkly, the man finally holstered his gun as he edged closer to an upholstered chair in the corner. "I'm not the one who's constantly putting shit in my mouth, pop."

Abruptly standing from the bird cage he was scanning, the android realized where the deviant had been hiding just as he heard the banging noise from above his partner.

"Detective, it's above you!" he shouted, and Connor looked up as he was suddenly tackled to the floor, the birds around them cooing in alarm and taking to the rafters in surprise.

Their target was rolling to his feet and moving before the man could draw his gun, and it shoved Hank to the floor as it darted towards the front door of the apartment. Connor pushed himself up, glancing at his partner, momentarily torn.

"You don't have to wait for me to chase it!" Hank said, waving him on, and Connor nodded as he tore after him. "I'll track you cybernetically – be careful!" he added as the man disappeared out of his sight.

It was beyond his programming to be irritated with his creators, but he felt something like that as he started to jog after the human. He was not designed for speed; he was designed for investigation and integration, and his heavier chassis was made to withstand significant structural compromise. He was not created to chase down deviants on foot, so for that, he was thankful for his human counterpart.

However, he was simultaneously concerned, for the continuing pieces of data he was collecting on the man were confirming that Anderson's desire to live was nearly nonexistent. Having the man out of his sight was…unsettling.

So he moved as quickly as he could, following the path his map gave him, spotting small drops of both thirium and blood along the way. Over walls and through urban farmland, he followed the trail until he came to a sudden stop on a building ledge above a greenhouse. Breath he didn't need caught in his throat as he watched Connor slide down the glass ceiling, rolling to the side to avoid an open skylight, and he pushed himself off the last pane to jump onto a moving train after their deviant target.

"Don't…don't die, son," he whispered, software shifting again. He wasn't even aware he had spoken until the wind blew his words back into his auditory processors, and his stride staggered for a moment.

Skip-beat.

His eyes didn't move from Connor as he struggled to keep his grip on top of the smooth train, his fingers slipping, before he leapt from it to the same ladder as their prey. Hank winced as his scan told him one of those cracked ribs was further damaged, and Anderson hung there for a half second before pulling himself up the rest of the way, scrambling over a wall and out of range.

Hank crossed a catwalk and cut through a few warehouses, following the confused and concerned workers to find his path. He jogged through a field of corn, ears straining to catch any sound of his quarry, and he felt a jolt of electricity down his spinal supports as a familiar voice echoed over the plants.

"Stop right there!"

Breaking through the greenery, Hank saw the deviant and Connor grappling at the edge of a rooftop, the man's breath coming harsh and rough. Twisting, the deviant abruptly shoved the detective hard in the chest, pushing him back towards the low wall, and took off in the other direction. Hank glanced towards the target as it sprinted away, projections loading in his view as he saw Connor tip over the roof, fingers just barely gripping the edge.

**Connor's chance of survival: 89%**

He looked hard at the figure, mentally frowning, and wondered if it was actually lower, given what he knew of the man. He looked after the retreating deviant, and immediately determined that its capture would put it into a self-destructive spiral. There were many ways for it to destroy itself before they reached the precinct, and a deviant's corpse without interrogation wouldn't give them much information relevant to the furtherance of the investigation.

It was therefore an easy decision.

Darting forward, he reached down for Connor, but the detective glared at him and snapped, "Go after the fucking target!"

Hank blinked and jumped forward as one of the man's hands slipped, leaving him hanging by four wrapped fingertips, and he had a sudden, unintentional preconstruction.

_**Connor looks up, gaze tired, exhausted, and he smiles the same smile he wore when facing the truck. He closes his eyes, sighs, and loosens his grip on the ledge. Weakened fingers slide from the concrete silently and he begins to drop immediately, gravity taking hold. He tips backwards as he falls, and his arms open wide as he willingly embraces the death that comes up from underneath to claim him.**_

Hank grabbed his left wrist in a bruising grip, both his hands wrapped firmly around his forearm in an unyielding hold. Connor gasped at the move, the pressure making him flex his fingers off the wall, but the android had already leaned back and provided correct counterweight. He lifted him straight up, bringing him to the roof, and the second he was on secure footing, he released him.

Instantly, Connor reared back and punched him in the face, snapping his head to the side and drawing a gush of thirium from the corner of his mouth.

"You bastard! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted, cradling his hand where he'd busted open his knuckles on the android's jaw. Hank blinked and looked at him, confused. "You saw him getting away! You'd rather save my life than complete your fucking mission?! What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!" Connor asked again, taking a step back, pacing side to side, glaring at him.

Hank frowned and ran the numbers in his head again. He thought…

"I had to make a choice. It seemed to me…"

Connor waved his bloody hand in the air, encompassing the city behind him. "What is this case to you, huh? It's not just Cyberlife's problem anymore, remember? It's the whole goddamn country! It can't just be a fucking statistic to be weeded out, a one or zero in your fucking program. It's gotta be the whole fucking point!"

Shifting in place, Hank tried again, "I understand you're upset. Perhaps I didn't assess the – "

Connor whipped around and snapped, "I told you, asshole! I'm not your friend, I'm not your partner! I don't need you to run my survival rates or any shit like that. Keep your fucking assessment program on the goddamn mission from now on, you understand?"

Hank blinked, taking a half step back at the sheer venom in his voice, and didn't move as the human muttered something low and started to storm past him. His processors whirling at near-quantum speeds, the android brought the world to a crawl as he dissected the situation, various priorities and protocols rolling rapidly across his eyes. Then an orange blip caught his roving attention, a symbol hovering above the man held in still in his blue-gray stasis vision. The now-familiar data displayed again, some updates already generated.

**LT. ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 167LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (Y), MUSIC (Y), ANDROID ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY (Y)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS**

**CAUTION: POOR SELF-CARE ACTIVELY OBSERVED, LOW SELF-ESTEEM ACTIVELY OBSERVED, ILLEGAL OPIOID USE DETECTED, POTENTIAL ILLEGAL ACTIVITY OBSERVED**

**NOTE: HISTORICAL INCIDENTS MAY EXPLAIN ISSUES**

**WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATIONS ACTIVELY OBSERVED**

***** SUBJECT INCAPABLE OF COMPLETING MISSION, ALERT CYBERLIFE IMMEDIATELY *****

But the white text and red alerts faded behind a forceful push, and Hank simply studied the _human_ instead of the data.

The android was suddenly struck anew by how very young the man was, and how utterly, truly alone he often found himself. It made some wiring behind his optics overheat, and his pump skipped again as he looked over the detective, seeing him in a different light.

The black cap that made the shadows under his eyes seem darker than night.

The jacket and hoodie that hid the wounds he never admitted to sustaining.

The fingers that were wrapped with frayed bandages dirty from work and wear.

The jeans that were stained with gun oil and thirium and worse.

The boots that were beaten and worn with the tread nearly gone.

A very distracting query crossed the prototype's processors: when was the last time the Lieutenant had slept?

The world resumed its usual pace as the Lieutenant suddenly stopped directly beside him, and Hank silently brought his hands behind his back, his focus realigning on the rooftops as he clasped his palms together.

"Sorry for punching you," Connor said abruptly, voice rough, and Hank shrugged, the small injury already forgotten. "I'm sorry for letting him get away," the android responded, deciding to acknowledge his own error.

"It's my fault. I should've been faster," Anderson muttered as he absently pressed a hand to his side and winced.

Frowning, Hank weighed the ridiculousness of the statement and turned slightly, eyeing the man out of the corner of his peripheral. "You'd have caught it if it weren't for me," Connor added bitterly, his frustration obvious Hank cocked his head and turned fully, unsure why a new wire at his thirium pump was starting to burn.

"It's…it's all right, Lieutenant," he said, placating, hoping to ease the man's ire. "We know what it looks like. We'll find it."

Nodding though not appearing convinced, Connor said nothing and continued towards an open stairwell nearby. Hank hesitated behind him, turning to check over the area once more. His optical sensors should have immediately gone towards the last known direction of their target, at the very least. He should be scanning for some evidence of its destination – something.

Instead, his processes were focused entirely on the low wall where he'd watched Connor nearly fall to his death, the same place where his preconstruction program had predicted the detective's suicide.

"Hey, Hank…"

Turning immediately, the android found the Lieutenant standing at the entry to the stairwell, halfway in the shadows already. He stiffened slightly as Hank's focus alighted on him, realizing at once where he'd been looking, and then he seemed to deflate.

"Nothing."

Hank watched him go, various processes tracking data, and the wires near his pump and behind his optics burned hotter for a moment. Hoping to let them cool in the falling night, he didn't follow.

Deep inside his core programming, he felt that same, odd shift.

* * *

It was raining in the garden.

Hank stood at the entry point for a few minutes, feeling the drops trickle down his face and slide underneath the raised collar of his coat. He could feel the press of Amanda at his mind, her curious impatience, but he held off for another moment longer. The rain was warm in this place, unlike the Michigan downpours that his partner seemed not to notice, and Hank forced away the coding that crossed his vision.

_**ENSURE WELLBEING OF LT. ANDERSON**_

This was not the place for such priorities.

Walking placidly down the pathways, Hank was relieved to see his handler awaiting him under the dry arms of one of the larger trees. Her green shawl stood out brightly against the dreary background, and Hank smiled at the pop of color.

"Hello, Amanda," he greeted, inclining his head a bit in respect.

She seemed irritated by his slight delay in arrival, her smile brief as she responded, "Henry, I've been expecting you." He did not make an excuse for his tardiness, and she appeared to appreciate that more. "Would you mind a little walk?" she asked, lips turning up slightly, and he smiled as he began to open the umbrella that had materialized in his hand upon entry.

It snapped open softly, and he extended an arm, allowing her to drape her palm over his wrist as he escorted her slowly around the pond. The large black guard shielded them both from the gentle torrent, and he waited for her to speak as he matched her steps in a gentlemanly fashion.

"That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case," she finally said, staring straight ahead. Hank looked down at her, considering her tone, and noted the disappointment in her features as she met his gaze firmly and continued, "A pity you didn't manage to capture it. You or the detective."

Hank considered the options before him, the blatant warning at the bottom of Anderson's profile shining in his vision, and he mentally waved it away; Connor's insistence for him to focus on the mission proved he was still an asset to the case.

"Deviants are completely irrational, which makes it difficult to anticipate their behavior. But I should have been more effective," he stated, aware that Amanda's tolerance for excuses was low.

Still, she seemed pacified by the admittance of his failure, and her smile brought the usual sunshine he was used to as she looked up at him and asked, "Did you manage to learn anything?"

Her confidence in him bolstered his processes, and he told her at length of the diary and the symbols they had discovered in the apartment. They walked the pond as he spoke, passing markers he knew by heart, and he eventually finished his report.

They strode along the path in silence for several minutes, Amanda absorbing his words, and Hank felt his inherent value increase; he was fulfilling his purpose in this mission – he was _successful_. He had brought her information and knowledge that was going to end the deviancy crisis. This was the point of his existence.

"You came very close to capturing that deviant."

Skip-beat.

Hank nearly missed a stepped as his thirium pump surged out of sync again, and he dismissed a diagnostic out of hand. It didn't make sense. The mind palace was pure software, no hardware operations in use when it was accessed. Why was it malfunctioning now? He stared straight ahead as he walked, Amanda's voice flowing over him. It no longer made him feel warm.

"How is your relationship with the Lieutenant developing?" she asked, voice colder than before, and Hank's memory banks opened and randomly flitted between different images of the man.

_**Back turned at the shooting range, shaking fingers trying to load the 438**__**th**__** bullet.**_

_**Falling through the ceiling, gun lethally targeted but refusing to fire.**_

_**Staring down a barrel of a loaded pistol without giving an inch.**_

_**Walking into the precinct with a violent suspect and receiving help from no one but androids.**_

_**Closing his eyes and waiting for the truck to reach his body.**_

_**Ordering away his only chance to survive a deadly fall.**_

"He seemed grateful that I saved his life on the roof," Hank answered, his eyes widening then narrowing at his own words. "He didn't say anything but he expressed it in his own way."

"_Sorry for punching you."_

Hank was so perplexed at his own commentary, caught up in his review of his words, that he hadn't realized that Amanda had stopped walking some ten feet behind him, her hand slipping from his arm. He stopped, turning, and stood alone under the umbrella.

"We don't have much time. Deviancy continues to spread – it's only a matter of time before the media finds out about it." Hank nodded, focus immediately retargeting on his mission. "We need to stop this, whatever it takes."

The mission – the mission is what mattered. Everyone was continuing to remind him of that, even the Lieutenant.

"I will solve this investigation, Amanda," he swore, voice firm, and he drew himself up as he added, "I won't disappoint you."

Her eyes were low, tracing the bridge, and Hank wondered if she found his mechanical dedication to be wanting. Instead, she looked up and advised, "A new case just came in. Find Anderson and investigate it."

When she walked past him, dismissing his presence without a word, he felt bereft. She was his earth, his bedrock – she gave him his purpose. To have her view of him dimmed was…unbearable. Resolve strengthened, he tightened his grip on the umbrella in his hand as the details of the case filtered through his processes, and he nodded to himself.

The strange software and hardware malfunctions that were occurring around the Lieutenant were distracting, and they needed to cease. However, the man was his partner, and that was also part of his orders from Amanda. He had so many conflicting priorities it made his processes ache. The first thing he needed to do was find the detective, then convince the man of his unsuitability to successfully continue on the case. Anderson would be reassigned to another investigation, and Hank could pursue his mission without the continued errors.

Hank _always_ completed his mission.

* * *

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: I wanted to put both the 'Russian Roulette' scene and the Eden Club in the same chapter, but that was too long, especially with the Bridge scene after it. Sorry guys, I'm breaking it up. Hopefully you enjoy my twists here. I'm really really _really_ worried about this chapter because it sets up so fucking much for Connor's story, his history, and his relationship with Hank. So I really hope you guys like it. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

His Social Relations program was sharply protesting his actions as he stepped out of the automated taxi.

Unable to locate the man at any of the usual ranges or the precinct, Hank had finally determined he would attempt the Lieutenant at his home. The address was accessed from his file, though it had been behind several layers of digital protection, which was unusual. Stepping through the rain from the edge of the road, Hank glanced over the home, scanning it reflexively.

It was small, nothing very noteworthy. The closest neighboring houses were all vacant, leaving the Lieutenant's home a single beacon of life in a sea of emptiness. Though the pickup truck was not visible in the driveway, Hank's sensors picked up recent oil slicks near the garage, and a heat reading could detect the lingering emissions from the engine and exhaust system inside it. The yard was maintained well enough, though it didn't appear that it had been touched recently, and Hank looked across the front of the house. Two bays of windows made up the majority of the face, the furthest left dark, the right barely lit, and the dim porch light was the only sign that the detective might be awake.

Approaching the front door and ducking under the low awning, Hank knocked on the entry. "Lieutenant Anderson?" Receiving no answer, he rang the bell twice, the second time for what might be considered an obnoxious stretch. "Anybody home?"

He wandered the front of the house, looking through the windows, heavy black curtains barring his optics from scanning anything inside. A check of the garage did prove the pickup was there, backed into place. The rest of the garage was completely empty, not a single item on the floors or walls, and Hank felt a tickle in his human behavior prediction program.

Moving along the right side towards the lit windows, Hank peered through the glass and was able to see just a slice of the room beyond – colors and angles, nothing discernable. Turning the corner, he found most of the rest of the windows were similarly blocked from view, and he felt the press of his mission again. The last window at the side of the house, though, was spilling light into the stormy night without any impediment. Stepping forward, Hank peered inside.

The kitchen of the home was immediately visible, just as bare and empty as the garage itself. There was a tiny square bistro table with a single chair against the far wall, and the counters were empty except for a case of water. Pressing against the window, Hank turned, taking in what he could of the interior. To the left, he could see the apparent living room of the home. It was stark, a worn couch pressed against the back wall near the front door, and a single floor lamp with a brightly burning bare bulb was standing beside it.

Skip-beat.

Connor was laying face down on the couch, still wearing the same clothes minus the jacket, his head and face hidden from view by the angle of the furniture. His booted feet were closest to the door, one leg bent like he'd simply collapsed onto the cushions, and his right arm hung over the edge towards the floor. His service pistol was laying on the hardwood by his hand, and there was blood dripping from his unbandaged fingertips into a puddle.

Skip-beat.

"Lieutenant Anderson!" Hank shouted, and he was moving before he had preconstructed his path. The window was too small for him to make access, but the front door was a simple matter. Hurrying back around the house, he took the steps in one stride and smashed his shoulder into the wood just above the lock. It shattered open with a groan, and he was inside and closing it unconsciously before the last splinters fell.

Then he was on the ground, something sharp digging into his boot, and he twisted, freezing at the sight. A massive dog was next to him, teeth wrapped around his ankle, holding him still without tugging further. The canine was black and white, various patterns interspersed in the short fur, sharp ears spiking angrily in his direction. It had blue-grey eyes that were trained on him with something so similar to intelligence that Hank found himself momentarily speechless. He felt his outer skin projection fail and a minor thirium line rupture, but it was barely an inconvenience.

"Easy…Dog," he said softly, and the huge canine abruptly let him go, tail wagging as it came closer to his face, sniffing him. He put up a hand as it licked the right side of his face, chuffing. "Yes, I'm your friend. I'm here to save your owner."

Apparently satisfied, Dog wandered off to the side, resting on a blanket that was spread in the corner, and it watched him with a curious gaze. Threat eliminated, Hank turned his attention back to his partner, standing and approaching the couch quickly. Connor was unmoving, his head turned into the back cushions, and the android began running a vitals scan as he knelt by the man. There were familiar headphones over the beanie he hadn't removed, heavy metal blasting through them, and Hank removed both pieces of headgear carefully, setting them aside even as he identified the song. His scan concluding, he reached down and picked up his limp hand, turning it over and focusing on the strange slashes he could see over the man's fingertips and lower ends of his digits. Without hesitating, he touched his own finger to one of the dripping wounds and raised it to his tongue, analyzing the blood to further determine the cause of the man's unconscious state.

**ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 166LB**

**HEARTRATE: 134**

**BLOOD PRESSURE: 131/90**

**BLOOD GLUCOSE: 43**

**BODY TEMPERATURE: 100.06F**

**WARNING: AMBIENT TEMPERATURE 63.7F, POTENTIAL FEVER DETECTED**

**CHEMICAL ANALYSIS: NO CHEMICALS IDENTIFIED**

**ESTIMATED DIAGNOSIS: EXHAUSTION, DEHYDRATION, MALNUTRITION, HYPOGLYCEMIA, MINOR BLOOD LOSS**

Hank frowned at the conclusion, treatment options arising immediately, and he found the wellbeing protocol flaring back up into his sight. He had expected some of the determinations; his partner's weight had been steadily dropping since he'd first scanned him, and that also coordinated with the hypoglycemia. The only thing that was odd was the dehydration. The detective carried water with him in his truck, and the wastebasket by his desk at the precinct was nearly filled with empty bottles. He had never noted the man to drink anything else. Moving carefully, aware of the man's previously obtained injuries, the android pulled him to the floor, avoiding both the gun and the small pool of blood on the floor. Cradling his head and supporting his torso to protect his ribs, Hank inhaled for the first time since he'd entered the home once the man was safely on the ground.

Odd. No cigarette odors other than from the detective's clothes.

Filing that away, Hank reached up and moved the hair away from the man's face, optics sharpening when he saw the dark shadows under his eyes. They hadn't receded in the time he'd seen him last, and his skin was pale, though his cheeks were slightly pink due to his heart rate. Connor's lips were slightly chapped and opened as he breathed shallowly through his cracked ribs, and the bruises from the murdering deviant were turning a yellowish green. The detective looked thoroughly beaten and exhausted, and the android suddenly realized that he had been since the day he'd met him.

Unaware of his own movements for a moment, Hank rested a gentle hand on the detective's head, thirium pump burning, and he heard his own voice in the air.

"Oh, son…"

Blinking, startled, Hank jerked back, staring at his palm like it was on fire, and he ran a quick diagnostic as he played back the memory of the last several seconds. Process without orders, protocol without intention, software and hardware errors – only around Anderson! Annoyed at the situation, and resolving to return to the mission at hand, because that was the only thing that _could_ matter, the only thing that _should ever_ matter, Hank shifted back a half foot.

"Lieutenant?" he called, voice pitched to cut through whatever fog was holding the man. There was no reaction, though he truthfully didn't expect one. Reaching over, absolutely and fully maintaining control of his hand, he patted the side of the detective's face. "Wake up, Lieutenant!"

Connor shifted in place, inhaling sharply, eyes fluttering briefly as he tensed before relaxing back against the floor. His head lolled slightly with the motion, and Hank noted a new cut on the side of the man's neck, shallow but untreated. He couldn't categorize the nature of the injury, and the absolute inconsistency and violation of protocols made him put more force than he intended into the next smack on the Lieutenant's face.

Eyes snapping open instantly, Connor abruptly jerked upwards, one hand scrabbling towards his empty holster, the other bracing behind him as he kicked out and put several feet of distance between himself and his assailant. Hank didn't move from his position, not anticipating the violent reaction, and he waited until the human's frantic gaze finally settled on him to raise his hands in supplication. "It's me, Hank," he said calmly, hoping to soothe the man's rapid breathing.

Anderson blinked several times, eyes unfocused, and he listed sideways into the couch as he lost the adrenaline he had upon awakening. Frowning, Hank moved with a purpose and stood. "I'm going to assist you, for your own safety," he advised as he knelt by the man and pulled one of his arms across his shoulders, heaving him upright.

"Leave me 'lone, you…fucking android," Connor muttered haltingly, and he slumped heavily against Hank's grip as the prototype adjusted his stance to relieve the pressure on his ribs. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant," he replied, turning them both as he started to scan the kitchen. "Just…get the fuck outta…my house," the detective slurred, trying to pull away.

Ignoring the order, Hank found traces of his target items, looked down at the man hanging against him, and responded, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I need you, so I'll thank you in advance for your cooperation."

Pulling the unwilling human along, Hank easily walked them into the kitchen, depositing his burden in the single chair. Connor groaned and slid bonelessly into the seat, folding his arms and putting his head down on the table, a choked question coming through the fabric of his sleeves.

"Dog, did you bite him?"

In the far corner of the living room, the canine gave an answering bark at his name, and the detective chuckled quietly. "Good boy."

Hank let the man stay where he was as he poked through multiple cabinets, discovering several dozen cans of dog food and very little else. Finally, he found a jar of peanut butter behind some dog treats, and fished two pieces of bread out of a bag in the nearly empty fridge. Making a simple sandwich, he placed it on the single plate he found, opened a bottle of water, and placed them in front of the detective. At the thunk of the ceramic hitting the table, Connor shifted so he could identify the noise. Hank was easily able to detect the grimace that crossed his face the moment the smell of food hit his nose.

"Fuck, I think I'm gonna be sick," he mumbled, ducking his head again, but the android physically pulled him upright and slid the plate closer in front of him. "Your blood sugar is low enough to be considered a medical emergency, and you're dehydrated," he stated plainly, and Connor sighed softly, closing his eyes. "I don't want a lecture, thank you."

Feeling his eyes narrow at the stubborn behavior, Hank picked up the sandwich and held it directly in front of the man's face. "Sorry, Lieutenant. It's for your own good."

Blinking up at the android, Connor stared at him for a long minute, something undefinable in his gaze that Hank had never seen before. Finally, he nodded, took the sandwich with bloody fingers, and began to eat. To his surprise, the man wolfed it down quickly, immediately reaching for the water bottle and chugging it in one go. Satisfied, Hank grabbed the trash and dish and turned back to the counter, cleaning up the mess as Connor resumed his previous position with his head hidden in his arms.

It only took him a few minutes to get everything back as he'd found it, and then he returned to the table, immediately noticing the improved vitals. He stood beside Connor's chair, arms at parade rest behind him, and waited. It took another several moments before the detective shifted in his chair and sat up, squinting. He glanced at Hank, a bit of confusion obvious, and he cocked his head.

"Pop? What the fuck are you doing here?"

Hank relaxed slightly at the familiar name. "A homicide was reported forty three minutes ago. I couldn't find you at any of the ranges, so I came to see if you were at home."

Groaning, Connor leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "Jesus, I must be the only cop in the world that gets assaulted in his own house by his own fucking partner…"

Choosing to ignore the term, since he had been told repeatedly that they were not partners, Hank still added the inconsistency to a personnel file that seemed to be made exclusively of inconsistencies. Then his hands dropped, and he fixed Hank with a look that the prototype _had_ seen before, three times now. Twice in reality, and once in a preconstruction.

Exhaustion. Resignation. Hollowed. _Done._

"Can't you just leave me alone?"

Hank hesitated, his blue eyes tracking the increasingly stable vitals, the wellbeing protocol fading away behind a mission priority that was screaming through his processes like a train derailing. This was what he had been aiming for, wasn't it? Hank absolutely could leave Connor alone. The detective wanted no part in the investigation – he'd made that abundantly clear. He had no ties to his precinct, and had obviously no qualms with his employment being terminated. Even if he wouldn't leave the case willingly, all Hank had to do was report any of his gross violations of behavior to Cyberlife and the man would be immediately removed from the equation.

Hank wasn't supposed to _want_, but this was what he _wanted_, wasn't it?

Skip-beat.

He remembered the electrical waves that had flooded him from his thirium pump regulator at the sight of Connor unconscious on the couch, and the way his hand had come to rest on his head of its own volition. The word that had slipped from his traitorous mouth – twice, now – was something he didn't even know was programmed in his database: _son_. He was coding an attachment to this organic that was similar to the one he had with Amanda, which shouldn't be possible. But the deep shifts in his programming that occurred every time he was with him were so similar to the ones that happened when his handler was pleased or displeased with his performance. And even though the Lieutenant cursed at him, lashed out at him, and pushed him away, Hank could sense that he had a sort of fondness for the Cyberlife unit. Humans were easy to read.

Skip-beat.

**_Rational – Aggressive – Solution – Pragmatic_**

He wasn't supposed to want.

"Unfortunately, I cannot," he answered, and tried to ignore the shiver in his spine that seemed to emanate from his mind palace. "I've been programmed to investigate this case and I can't do it without you."

Connor chuckled dryly, standing, knees wobbling slightly before locking, and he walked over to the counter to grab another bottle of water, cracking it open and slugging some of it down. "I don't give a shit about your goddamn case," he stated clearly, and Hank both did and did not doubt that.

"Lieutenant, you're not yourself," he responded, though multiple processes were querying why he was trying to salvage the man's connection to the investigation. "You should – "

Slamming the bottle on the countertop, a surge of water sloshing out of the top, Connor took two steps towards him and shouted, "Beat it, you hear me! Get the hell out of here!"

Hank flinched, LED cycling to red for a moment, before it abruptly turned yellow with alarm as the detective stumbled, nearly going to his knees. Deftly, Hank grabbed him at the shoulders, steadying him, ducking his head slightly so he could run another scan on his vitals. Connor was blinking rapidly, breaths coming sharp and quick, and Hank carefully maneuvered him back to lean on the counter.

Anderson's trembling fingers grasped the edge of the countertop, and Hank made sure he was steady before backing away, considering. The man was nothing but hostile to the concept of continuing with the investigation, and Hank wasn't going to be able to bypass his primary mission objective for much longer. The push was still there, though, the wellbeing protocol a ghostly urge.

"I understand," he said finally, no other recourse presenting itself. The words were not easy to pronounce. He _didn't_ understand. Connor was an exceptionally talented detective, though thoroughly haunted. Data suggested this case would be extremely intriguing for someone of his caliber. Hank didn't understand. But his Social Relations program advised that he should. "I sincerely hope you come to terms with your personal situation," he added, optics catching the man's full-body flinch at the words.

Then Hank turned, a bit off step, and realized that he had almost…grown accustomed to working with the man.

"This homicide…"

The prototype paused, smiling slightly, and confirmed his data on the detective's interest level in the case.

"What do we know about it?"

Hank already had the details in his head, so to speak, so it was easy enough to paraphrase the quantity of information given to on-scene responders as he turned. "A man was found dead in a sex club downtown. The report says that an android may be involved."

Nodding to himself, Anderson muttered, "Might not be a bad idea for me to get out of here."

Clearing his throat, Hank glanced at the clothing that was beyond filthy, and he suggested, "It might be a better idea to take a shower."

Connor didn't answer verbally, but the look he gave the android could freeze thirium. He weaved down the hallway, Hank following him at a distance to ensure he didn't fall, and shut himself in the bathroom. A minute after the knocking pipes rattled to life, Connor shouted, "Hank, there are some clothes in the bedroom there."

Nodding from his post beside the door, realizing that the detective had forgotten a change of outfits with the lingering effects of his hypoglycemia, the android walked over to the closed bedroom door and started to open it as he asked, "What do you want to wear?"

"Whatever."

Hank barely processed the response as the bedroom light flickered on. The rest of the house was bare, sparsely furnished. The bedroom was, for the most part, extremely utilitarian as well. A bed, a single dresser, a table stacked with boxes of ammo as well as gun care supplies, and a floor lamp were things that, in retrospect, he would have been expecting.

The electric guitar on a stand in the corner, next to a large amp, a stool, and a table with a dedicated network terminal were what surprised him. Ignoring it all for the moment, Hank found the closet empty and searched the dresser instead. He found similar clothing to what he had already seen Connor in, and picked out more of the same. Folding the bundle, Hank cautiously knocked on the bathroom door and entered, averting his gaze out of respect.

The shower-tub combination was enclosed with a set of glass doors, their panes frosted, and the mirror was clear, no steam rising to fog its surface. Sitting the clothing on the counter, Hank noted the various post-it notes on the mirror and nearby wall.

_Fuck the world – it fucked you first_

_Why did you wake up today?_

_You DIDN'T – They DID_

_Just keeping shooting_

_The more you need, the more you owe_

Hank had seen enough samples of Connor's handwriting to recognize that all the notes were all done by his own hand, and he glanced at the shower in Social Relations reflex. Anderson's outline was a dim shadow, but his left palm was on the glass, red blood trailing down in streams.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he asked, and the man's voice was steady but quiet as he responded, "Yeah. Yeah, just wonderful. Gimme five minutes, all right?"

Nodding needlessly, Hank stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He went back into the living areas first, wiping up the spilled water in the kitchen and finding some cleaning supplies to remove the blood from the floor before it stained. He retrieved the detective's pistol and placed it on the kitchen table as well. Seeing Dog in the corner, he cautiously approached, kneeling and stroking the calm canine along his back as it huffed at the attention. Looking around at the rest of the living room, Hank was perplexed to find it utterly bare – no wall decorations, books, or even a television were present. As he'd already been given permission to access the bedroom, the android headed back to that area, the soft click of nails on wood advising him he had a tail.

Dog followed him and jumped up onto the twin bed that was made, a singular divot in the foot making it obvious that the animal slept in it more than the human. Hank went over to the guitar and scanned it as his olfactory processor detected a strong scent of iron. Glancing at the small wastebasket beside the bed, he found familiar bandages, as well as the envelope that had been given to Connor at the Chicken Feed previously. There was a residue on it that matched the same that was present on the guitar. There were also several broken guitar strings in the basket of varying ages and thicknesses. One had fresh, tacky blood on it; he'd discovered the cause of the detective's recent neck wound: snapped string.

Kneeling next to the guitar, Hank ran a finger over one of the strings, instantly identifying Connor's blood worked deep into the metal. He cross-referenced everything he could on 'dynamite' and 'guitars', finding that dynamite was a slang term for the D string. Feeling thirium lines on his face flood, Hank amended his profile of the detective as he stood and accessed the terminal. There were several thousand heavy metal songs listed, and, as he tapped one, the complicated sheet music displayed on the wall. There were hundreds of mastery checkmarks along the list, dates and timestamps between them too narrow to be healthy. This wasn't a hobby, it was an obsession.

In the bathroom, the water shut off, and Hank asked, "What are you doing with the guitar?"

There was a pause, as though Connor was debating answering, before he responded shortly, "Seeing if I can play it hard enough and long enough to bleed out. Keep passing out before I get that far."

Hank's fingers paused on the terminal at the answer, optics catching the smears of blood from his partner, and he switched it off. There was nothing to alter in the personnel file regarding this; he already knew of Anderson's self-destructive tendencies. Turning, he redirected his attention to the gun table, counting the bullets, categorizing them and absently quantifying the price of the materials. It was in the thousands.

Behind one of the boxes, a framed photo caught his eye, and he gently picked it up. It had been turned on its face with some force, the glass cracked, and some shards were in danger of falling out, but he could still identify the parties easily.

There were seven individuals in the photo, including Connor and Captain Fowler. To Hank's surprise, on Anderson's immediate right was Gavin Reed, his arm slung over the Lieutenant's shoulder, his unscarred face smiling wide. Four others were unknown to Hank, and he scanned their faces.

**MATCH**

**ANDERSON, COLE / K9 SERGEANT**

**BORN: 09/06/1985 / DIED: 10/11/2035**

**CAUSE OF DEATH: LINE OF DUTY ACTION **

**MATCH**

**CHEN, TINA / OFFICER **

**BORN: 04/23/2004 / DIED: 10/11/2035**

**CAUSE OF DEATH: LINE OF DUTY ACTION**

**MATCH**

**LEWIS, ROBERT / OFFICER **

**BORN: 01/09/2001 / DIED: 10/11/2035**

**CAUSE OF DEATH: LINE OF DUTY ACTION**

**MATCH**

**PERSON, LEE / OFFICER **

**BORN: 08/28/2009 / DIED: 10/11/2035**

**CAUSE OF DEATH: LINE OF DUTY ACTION**

Hank's processes were spinning in his head, and his thirium pump felt like it was going to beat out of his chassis. Looking closer at the photo of the men and women with their arms all looped around each other, he could clearly identify Cole Anderson, Connor's father. Their facial features were similar, though the younger man hadn't inherited his father's green eyes. He was on the Lieutenant's left, a proud smile on his face, and the rest of the people appeared to enjoy the man's company as well. It was such a different dynamic than what Hank saw Connor endure now. The photograph was apparently taken in a restaurant, a bright neon 'Jimmy's Bar' logo flaring behind the group, and there were expensive alcoholic beverages lined up on the table in front of them. This was a celebratory event, his Social Relations program advised, and Hank guessed it was regarding the young detective's promotion to Lieutenant, if the brandishing of the new badge on his hip was any indication.

A press to know more hit him suddenly, no identified processes or protocols urging the need, and he obeyed. Accessing the network, he ran a search for the date inside DPD's files, information flaring through his program.

Eyes closing tightly, Hank tried to sort through the surge of burning wires behind his optics and skipping thirium pump and unusually shaking hands as they clutched the photograph almost desperately.

It wasn't…_fair_.

There was a scuffle behind him, and Hank swiftly replaced the photo as he'd found it, turning immediately. Connor was just stepping out of the bathroom, scrubbing at his hair with a towel, his clean thermal hanging in his hand. He didn't look at Hank as he turned down the hallway towards the kitchen, and the android followed as his optics focused on something unusual. Anderson opened a cabinet that Hank hadn't accessed previously, three prescription bottles with faded labels sitting along the ledge, and he palmed two pills from the largest one; his fingers were already rewrapped in new bandages. Another amendment to be made in his profile, Hank determined silently, reviewing the expired dates and the detective's name clearly visible.

But what was drawing more of the prototype's attention was the human's torso.

Connor still hadn't pulled on his shirt, and his jeans were riding low due to the weight of his duty belt. The empty holster, loaded magazines, pocket mag light, and a few other implements Hank didn't have need to scan broke the pale outline of the man's skin like skyscrapers in the dawn. There were also some fading bruises from his encounter at Ortiz's house, and they were mottled.

But their dark coloring couldn't hide the bright red and white scarring that wrapped around the Lieutenant's right side.

The marks were raised and ragged, crossing just over his spine near his lumbar region and rising up to his shoulder blade. They puckered the skin along the top of his bicep, dropping a few inches towards his elbow, and as he turned to grab the opened water to swallow the pills, Hank could see that they also crossed under his arm. The scars encompassed the top of his chest near his collarbone and sloped back sharply, a perfect line in the old wound stopping the marks just above his pectoral. The scan was immediate and reflexive, and made bitter thirium surge against the back of Hank's analysis system.

** SYNC STARTED**

** SYNC COMPLETED**

** COLLECTING DATA**

** PROCESSING DATA**

**THIRD DEGREE BURNS, APPROXIMATELY 21% OF SUBJECT'S SURFACE AREA**

**SWEAT GLANDS DESTROYED IN MULTIPLE LOCATIONS**

**SUBJECT LIKELY SUFFERS FROM SIGNIFICANT HEAT INTOLERANCE**

**SUBJECT AT CONTINUED RISK FOR DEHYDRATION**

**APPROXIMATE AGE OF BURNS: 3 YEARS**

**NOTE: LIMITED TREATMENT PERFORMED FOLLOWING ACQUISITION OF INJURY, SCAR TISSUE LACKS ELASTICITY AND FLEXIBILITY**

Connor pulled his shirt over his head, interrupting Hank's visual scan, and the android noted it had the same layered collar and hood as his previous thermal; it easily hid the scarring from sight no matter which direction he moved. That wasn't an accident. Forcing his face into a placid smile, Hank stood ready, tilting his head towards the pistol on the kitchen table. Scooping it up and holstering it without looking, Anderson glanced at the canine who had followed them into the kitchen.

"Be a good boy, Dog. I won't be long," Connor said, walking past him with a soft pat on the head. The animal whined softly, nudging the man's leg with his nose as he left, and Anderson ignored it. Shoving his feet into the boots he had discarded in the bathroom, he exited through the far door of the hallway into the garage.

Hank followed, fingertips brushing the tips of Dog's ears, ignoring the rasping wetness as it licked him. Connor was pulling his coat from the bed of the truck and shoving his arms through it by the time the android closed the door behind him, and he silently got into the cab. The detective started the truck and reached for the button to open the main door. He flinched as his fingertips brushed the pad, and he exhaled a sharp curse. Silently, Hank cybernetically activated the opener, and felt the heat of Connor's stare for a moment before the truck eased into motion.

Skip-beat, shift.

**ANDERSON, CONNOR**

**BORN: 09/02/2007 / POLICE LIEUTENANT**

**HGT: 5'11" / WGT: 167LB**

**HAIR: BRO / EYES: BRO**

**DOM HAND: RIGHT**

**HOBBIES: SHOOTING (Y), MUSIC (Y), GUITAR (Y), ANDROID ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY (Y)**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: RESIDENTIAL NOISE ORDINANCE VIOLATIONS (CONFIRMED)**

**CAUTION: POOR SELF-CARE ACTIVELY OBSERVED, LOW SELF-ESTEEM ACTIVELY OBSERVED**

**NOTE: MEDICAL COMPLICATIONS FROM PREVIOUS INJURIES POTENTIALLY CONTRIBUTING TO MENTAL INSTABILITY**

**WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATIONS ACTIVELY OBSERVED**

***** SUBJECT POTENTIALLY INCAPABLE OF COMPLETING MISSION *****

* * *

End Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Had to fix this part of the Eden Club. And don't hate me for the last section. I don't usually do any sort of songs in my stories, but since Connor is always listening to music, and the song given pretty much started this story and breathed life into Human Connor's character, I had to. If you've never listened to it, I do recommend it.

* * *

Window, smoke, music.

Normal, now.

The bright pink neon of the Eden Club rolled up on them quickly, and Hank occupied his processes with searching through his database with previous notes on the establishment. There was a potential deviant case that had arisen at this location, over a month previously, but it was still open with no leads. A WR400, commonly identified as a 'sex android', had been rented at a higher than usual rate to accompany a patron to his home. It had disappeared shortly after, never returning as ordered to the club. There was little else to go on.

"The previous incident involving the WR400 with the Eden Club – it was assigned to you?" Hank asked, already knowing the answer.

Connor hummed noncommittally, taking a drag on his cigarette as he brought the truck to a stop, eyes checking over the ambulance that was parked around the corner. "Yeah," he finally answered as he flicked off the radio, frowning. "Floyd Mills was found strangled in his home, and android involvement was suspected, though I haven't been able to prove it." Leaning back, throwing the gearshift into park, the detective glanced at Hank and asked, "You sure this is the place? They've got pretty good firewalls around their units, and they regularly default the androids to factory settings to prevent instabilities from developing."

Hank shrugged slightly, his trench coat limiting the movement, and he answered, "It's the address in the report."

Finishing his last cigarette, Connor tossed it out the window and rolled it up, stepping out of the truck into the rain. It didn't confuse the android, now, why the man lingered in the downpour, or why he seemed not to care about the cold as much. Still, he kept an eye on the man's body temperature as they slowly made their way to the entry.

"Sexiest androids in town…" Something close to disgust was edging the back of the detective's voice, and he shook his head as they crossed the police line. "Why would anyone insist on coming here?" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head, and Hank knew not to answer. They entered through the dark sliding doors, music and lights pouring over them.

"Hey, Con," the heavyset detective said in greeting as they approached, his fingers tripping over his tablet as he finished interviewing the business owner. "Collins," Anderson returned, tilting his head. "Where's my crime scene?"

Ben jerked a thumb over his shoulder to a plate door that had the red lit phrase 'OCCUPIED' stretching across it. "It's that room there." Nodding, Connor took a step towards it, but slowed when the man continued, "Oh, uh, by the way…Gavin's in there, too."

Hank's focus shifted from his path to his partner. The detective's body visibly tensed for a moment before he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and sighed, "Great, thanks." There was no point in delaying; he walked towards the entry, only pausing long enough for it to whisk aside to allow them access. Hank followed, his arms loose at his sides, and immediately started to scan the room.

The bed in the middle of the room was round, fitted with satin sheets, and he did a cursory review of the body lying on top of it. A deactivated android was splayed out on the floor in the far corner, the smell of thirium sharp in the air. Reed and another officer were standing on opposite sides of the bed, and Gavin turned as they entered, a huff of irritation crossing his lips.

"Lieutenant Anderson and his plastic pet. The fuck are you two doing here?" he asked, arms across his chest.

Connor glanced at him, jaw working, and Hank found himself answering instead, "We've been assigned all cases involving androids."

Anderson relaxed, the lock of hair over his left eye bobbing slightly, and the prototype realized belatedly that he hadn't replaced his hat. He wondered if the man had more than one in his possession.

"Oh yeah? Well, you're wasting your time. Just some pervert who got more action than he could handle," Gavin said, rolling his eyes. The second officer was, to Hank's mechanical displeasure, one he recognized from the first crime scene. "We'll have a look anyway, if you don't mind," Connor finally said, taking a step towards the bed, and Reed shrugged, scoffing.

"Come on, let's go," he ordered, dropping his arms and turning. Coming close to Anderson, he added, "It's starting to stink of smoke in here." His eyes were sharp, the tendons in his neck standing out, and he bumped his shoulder hard into the Lieutenant's right arm as he passed, shoving the man aside. Hank watched him go, frowning, and the second officer followed, shaking his head.

"Goddamn hook's gonna fuck this up, too," he muttered, and the door slid shut behind them.

Connor stood silently for a few seconds, still turned from where he'd been pushed, and his left hand trembled slightly as it came up to rub at the hidden scar tissue. The android redirected his optics, giving him a moment of privacy, and approached the bed. The body was still cooling, and it didn't take him long to determine the man's identity and cause of death.

"He didn't die of a heart attack," Hank stated, turning to his partner as the detective stepped up beside him. "He was strangled."

Fully focused on the case, Connor nodded and gestured towards the man's neck. "Yeah, that's consistent with the bruising. The models used in this industry have their strength carefully regulated and monitored; even if it was rough play, the android shouldn't have been able to kill him."

Unless it was a deviant, of course.

Evaluating the deactivated android's condition as he approached it, Hank tested the exposed thirium and identified the critically damaged biocomponents. "Do you think you could read the android's memory?" Connor called from the other side of the room; he was still next to the bed, eyes tracking over the body.

Shaking his head, a few wisps of hair falling into his face, Hank said, "It's been badly damaged. The only way to access its memory is to reactivate it."

Connor walked over to the where the prototype was kneeling next to the beaten android, his arms wrapped around his chest as he considered the damage. Thirium had run down her face, staining her lips, and though there weren't any other visible injuries, the detective knew better. Sex androids weren't made for physical durability. Their professions required soft, supple movements and increased Thirium pressure to allow for greater flexibility. "Reactivate her? Think you can do it?"

Hank pressed two white fingers to the worker's wrist and ran the data, nodding. "It'll only be for a minute, maybe less. We'll have to ask the right questions."

But as he reached for the access panel in the android's torso, Connor put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I doubt that'll be enough time to learn anything, especially if the shutdown was violent – we'll figure out something else."

Frowning, Hank looked at his partner and stated, "This is clearly the most efficient way to discover what happened, and who killed the victim." But Anderson shook his head as he walked over to the drink stand, beginning to search through the man's wallet.

"I'm not letting you bring her back just so she can die again," he said tersely, flipping through the billfold, and the prototype felt the inaccuracies in the core of his programming as he stood. "Lieutenant, you have a higher understanding of android physiology than most humans. However, that statement is not politically, mechanically, or even technologically accurate, in any conventional sense."

Sighing heavily, Connor dropped the wallet and turned, fixing Hank with a hard stare. "I will not authorize the reactivation of the android in order for it to immediately deactivate upon initialization of its primary processes. Better, asshole?"

LED going yellow for a moment, Hank finally answered, "Understood. Do you have an alternate approach to this investigation?"

Anderson didn't respond, eyes holding the prototype, and Hank took the hint and moved away from the deactivated android. Some of the tension in the man's stance disappeared, and he nodded, pointing to the bed.

"Two types of hair on the sheets – black and blue. This is a fairly clean establishment, and they change the bedding in between sessions. I don't think Reed was that far off; I think our victim got more action than he could handle: two girls. If he made the decision to add the second girl after the beginning of the session, the staff wouldn't be aware of the additional contract until after the session was complete," Connor explained, and Hank scanned the multiple strands that he hadn't assessed the first time. The human's knowledge of the Eden Club was no doubt gained from his previous and ongoing investigation into the first incident, and the android appreciated the competence.

"Standby, Lieutenant…your theory appears solid. Bank records advise of multiple charges at the club near the beginning of the session, including the original rental, various erogenous metabolites, and two alcoholic beverages. Thirteen minutes after the initial session began, another charge was added for twenty five dollars and forty nine cents," Hank advised, reading the information displaying on his optics.

Already turning towards the door, Connor grumbled, "Gotta love that fifteen percent multi-unit discount. Fucking prick."

Hank followed automatically, standing back as the detective began to speak with the manager lingering nearby in a low voice, body nearly vibrating with nervous energy. Dedicating half his processes towards following the conversation, he allowed the others to attempt to piece together the oddity of the human's behavior regarding androids.

It didn't compute.

At the beginning of their partnership, Connor had appeared apathetic towards the prototype. He hadn't requested any information regarding his multiple specialized functions until they arose, and he treated him like he was furniture in his path on more than one occasion. Every attempt to breach the expansive divide that separated them, both as organic-versus-machine and as partners, was brutally and efficiently deflected.

However, those pronouns refused to stop bouncing around his memory banks.

Anderson treated androids like humans, and appeared to give them more care and trust than any of the humans that should have encompassed his immediate social circle. He called units 'he' and 'she', referred to them by their names when known, and protected them, offered them aid. He had given the android at Ortiz's home a choice – a minute-long grace period surrounding it – instead of deactivating it with a single bullet. Hank had no doubt the man had purposefully missed the first two shots, that they'd been unnecessary warnings, and he felt an increase in his estimation of the detective's suicidal tendencies.

The Lieutenant had absolutely no desire to extend his own life, but actively attempted to ease the suffering of androids.

Why?

"Back this way?" the detective was asking, already beginning to walk further into the club, and Hank immediately reviewed the information the man had obtained from the manager as they headed towards the red-tinted lights. "You believe that the second android may have fled to the storage and maintenance bay?" he asked, and Connor shrugged as he responded, "She couldn't go outside dressed like she was, not unnoticed, but there will be a lot of androids in there. Think you can pick out a deviant in the mix?"

They passed into a blue room, the detective's feet taking him unerringly towards a 'PRIVATE – STAFF ONLY' door, and Hank ran the figures. "Deviants aren't easily detected," he admitted, the entry sliding open to allow them access to the undecorated hallway. "But I'll attempt to do so."

Unzipping his jacket in a practiced motion, Connor pulled his gun as they came closer to the steel door. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushed it out of his eyes, and he glanced at Hank.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, and the android nodded. "Got it."

The hinges squeaked as they protested their use, and Anderson pulled the door open slowly. His right hand held his pistol close to his chest, ready to move, and he stepped into the warehouse beyond. It was large, more a vehicle repair shop than a storage unit attached to a sex house, and the human descended the steps carefully. He gestured for Hank to stay at the top of the stairs as he quickly cleared the area of any visible threat or movement, stopping at the large rolling door that opened to the storm outside.

"Clear," he called, but didn't holster his weapon. Hank walked into the main area and turned slowly, scanning everything with a grey-blue haze. "Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?" he asked, stepping forward to view some of the androids locked upright in stasis.

The man hummed softly, his own attention diverted as he investigated, and Hank pressed, "This industry appears to bother you more than it does some of your coworkers."

He heard his partner continue moving, though there was a slight uptick in his heartrate. "Look at them, Hank. Christ, they…they get used 'til they break and then they get tossed out," Connor muttered, gesturing towards the open garage door. It was clearly a disposal area, and Hank noted the frustration clouding the man's words as the detective continued, "People…are just fucking insane. People don't want relationships anymore; everyone just uses androids. They cook what you want, they screw when you want." He paused, shaking his head, and continued, "You don't have to worry how they feel."

Hank hesitated as he approached some familiar graffiti on the wall, but Connor was turned towards the low repair table, so the android wasn't able to detect his facial expressions. Still, his voice was darkly humorous as he added, "Fuck, pretty soon the human race is gonna be extinct because everyone would rather buy a piece of plastic than…"

There was a definite hitch in his breath then, and he trailed off. Hank let him be as he filed away the RA9 painted on the wall, that particular reference file growing thicker.

"Hey Hank, blue blood over here – it's fresh," Anderson said abruptly, and the prototype obeyed the unspoken request immediately. Kneeling next to one of the puddles, he tested it, and nodded. "WR400 model confirmed. This is likely from our deviant suspect." Following the trail, the two approached the corner furthest from the door, and Hank noted that the man's weapon was angled down.

Then his optics found a yellow LED framed by blue hair, and the world exploded.

They had expected one deviant. Two was a statistical improbability.

Hank backed away from the unit that was fiercely engaged in attempting to deactivate him, his movements smooth and calculated. This was what he had been designed for, he thought with satisfaction. He may not have been created with speed in mind, but hands-on physical combat was one of his higher proficiencies. When the unit grabbed a screwdriver and began swiping the point in his direction like a blade, he activated more processes towards tracking the improvised weapon. His attacker was vicious, lithe, and while there was little strength behind its movements, there was desperation. The warehouse whirled as he spun, the bottom of his trench coat rising with the motion, and he felt the surge of thirium that pulsed through his pump heat comfortably.

They fought across the warehouse floor, Hank giving himself over entirely to the mission. He allowed a small percentage of his processes to track the other sounds he could hear, though, the heavy scuffles and clattering noises on the other side of the warehouse. While preconstruction and statistical data advised that he should eventually hear a gunshot, the bold, heavy-lettered warnings in the detective's file told him otherwise.

The Lieutenant would not shoot.

He dodged one swipe and managed to knock the screwdriver out of the deviant's hand, the tool clattering to the ground. He began to shift back into an offensive stance, and the sound of flesh on metal made him stumble. Hank glanced to his right, wellbeing protocol welling up in his optics, overwhelming his combat priority for a half second. The blue haired deviant had launched itself at Anderson, slamming him against a support post, their joined hands wrapped around his pistol. The prototype didn't have time to focus on their altercation before he was set upon again.

Between a hanging hook, a toolbox, and a stool, Hank found himself with his back to the wall, the deviant's fingers scrabbling at his face as he tried to shove her off. He was stronger, his chassis unyielding, his thirium levels at least two pints higher than his attacker's. But whatever electrical surges were occurring in the deviant's system were making its synthetic muscles tighter than usual, giving the unit power it shouldn't have had.

In the middle of the garage, Connor was abruptly wrangled over the repair table, the other deviant spread out overtop of him, both hands reaching for his weapon. The man was pushing her back with one foot while he furiously tried to maneuver out of her grip. Hank could see his wrapped fingers clearly; the man's index finger was inside the trigger guard, yes, but he had wedged it tightly _behind_ the trigger itself, essentially disabling the weapon.

The sheer violation of protocol made something burn deep inside Hank. The man had no care of his life, none whatsoever. It was likely the Lieutenant was only fighting as a reflex, an instinctive response to the assault. He would let these deviants slaughter him, strangle him like an ill-bred john, before literally lifting the one finger needed to actually save himself. The detective was living, had been giving a gift that others were refused daily, and he was finding every chance to throw it away.

How…how could he justify that?

Something mechanical came out of the prototype's mouth and he hauled both himself and his attacker backward, the two of them falling out of the open door to land heavily onto the wet ground outside. He hadn't been expecting her to shift and make him land first; deviants were nearly impossible to predict, as he'd advised Amanda previously. The unexpected hit to the concrete knocked his combat routines offline, stunning his system into a soft reboot, and he couldn't move. But as he laid there, eyes up to the rain, he heard more than saw the second deviant, their original target, come rushing up.

Within seconds he felt his body being manhandled into an upright kneeling position. Something sharp was at his neck, pressing against a primary thirium line, and he suddenly realized that he was about to be deactivated. Him, the Negotiator, Cyberlife's pride and joy, had fallen prey to two sex workers. The thirium burning inside him was no longer pleasant.

_I don't want to deactivate._

The concept was as unusual as it was quick. Then there was movement in his periphery, something he couldn't make out as his systems recycled, and he felt himself fall sideways. Auditory processors were picking up the continued sounds of grunting and thumps, and he rerouted some processes in order to online his joint control faster. Sitting up, clutching the pistol that had fallen to the ground and was just within reach, he forced himself to his feet.

Connor was pinned between the two androids, fighting them both simultaneously, and he kicked the short-haired one into the fence as he used his reverse momentum to shove the other to the ground as he fell. There was another scrabble, and Hank approached quickly as he saw a metal trashcan suddenly smash across Anderson's left shoulder. He dropped, rolling to the side, his right arm coming up to protect himself from the charging android. Wellbeing protocols mixed with coding he hadn't seen before crossed his head, blue arrows angling upwards sharply for a moment in his vision.

Hank placed himself between the deviant and his partner and levelled the weapon at her primary power regulator.

A single shot, he deduced, the world slowing to a crawl. It would take her systems offline within a matter of moments, and then they would still have the second android to question. It made sense – _it made sense_. It was a threat to him and his mission, and it needed to be deactivated.

_I don't want to deactivate._

His own treacherous thought came back to him, and he blinked, the world returning to full speed as his finger slipped off the trigger. The heeled shoe that smashed into his chest brought him down and around, and the gun clattered to the side. He dropped beside the Lieutenant, his system shifting and thirium pump skip-beating like a herd of horses. He didn't need to breathe, but he _couldn't breathe._

The two deviants stood before them, hands clasped, each trying to shield the other from the world.

"You don't have to be afraid," Connor said softly, pushing himself to standing. His left arm hung oddly, and his words stuttered as he hugged it close to his chest. "Tell us…tell us what happened," he offered, and Hank tried to ignore the numerous malfunctions crossing his systems as he came to stand beside and behind his partner.

"When that man broke the other Traci…I knew I was next," the blue-haired explained, her voice wavering. The other unit shifted, pulling her closer, and Hank recorded the visual, perplexed. "I was so scared. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't."

Connor didn't move, but he eased his posture slightly, reducing his threat visual. "So you put your hands around his throat, and you squeezed…until he stopped moving," he offered, voice gentle and odd and uncategorized. Hank felt his processes shift again, and knew his own LED was as yellow as his targets'.

"I didn't mean to kill him!" she cried, and the shorter-haired unit hushed her slightly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I just wanted to stay alive, and…get back to the one I love." She turned, nuzzling her forehead into the second android's cheek. "I wanted her to hold me in her arms again, make me forget about the humans – their smell of sweat and their dirty words."

Anderson was quiet, and Hank didn't need to see his face to know that something had changed in the way he was looking at them. The androids took whatever they saw as permission, because they both nodded slightly, their LEDs cycling to blue, and turned back to the fence. Graceful as they were created to be, they climbed the tall barrier, dropped to the other side, and hurried out of view. The prototype felt rain pour down his back, soaking his synthetic skin under his shirt, and he blinked as everything started to balance again.

Connor sighed heavily, choking off a laugh as he took a step backwards, almost losing his footing on the wet pavement. He caught himself quickly, and Hank's wellbeing protocol surged up. He grasped it with every process he had, needing something to maintain his mechanical continuity, and he reached forward.

"Don't fucking touch me."

The words were low, hissed, and Connor took sharp, quick steps towards the closest wall. Hank blinked at the sickening slide and crunch as the man abruptly forced his dislocated shoulder back into joint, gasping and bending over sideways to abruptly vomit. The small amount of food that the android had been able to get into his system less than an hour before made a reappearance, and Hank ran the calculations on the caloric intake the detective had managed from the meal before losing it. They stood there for several seconds, the prototype watching his partner carefully, dedicating his programming to that task alone. Everything else was too complicated to process at the moment.

"It's better this way," Anderson said quietly, and Hank didn't know what he was referring to, or who he was trying to convince: himself, the android behind him, or the rain that was turning to ice in the clouds above.

* * *

They drove in circles for hours through the heavy snow.

Hank didn't say a word even as his GPS faithfully tracked their path. The window was in its usual position, nestled firmly within the metal confines of the driver door. The detective was chain smoking through stick after stick of paper-wrapped tobacco, and music was screaming over the speakers like a dying banshee.

They came to a light and stopped, some late night pedestrians casting the black truck curious looks. One of them, a human child, had a look of trepidation at the blankness on the Lieutenant's face as he stared out at the empty road in front of him. Hank focused on the lyrics of a new song to avoid processing the concept of emotion for the moment.

_I tried it once before but I didn't get too far  
I felt a lot of pain but it didn't stop my heart  
And all I really wanted was someone to give a little fuck  
But I waited there forever and nobody even looked up_

Identifying information about the music cross the android's optics, and he read it as he recognized idly that Connor had pulled into a small gas station.

**ARTIST: BADFLOWER**

**SONG: GHOST**

**YEAR: 2018**

**GENRE: ROCK/INDIE/POST-GRUNGE**

**CAUTION: LYRICS REFERENCE SELF-HARM AND SUICIDE**

_I tried it once before and I think I might have messed up  
I struggled with the veins and I guess I didn't bleed enough  
But maybe I'm alive because I didn't really wanna die  
But nothing very special ever happens in my life_

Connor stepped out of the truck without a word, leaving the engine running and radio blaring, and Hank watched him go, the words of the song soaking into his processes. He felt that shift, that skip-beat, as Anderson recognized a squad car parked elsewhere in the lot and his steps slowed. He came to a full stop, snow accumulating on his jacket for a moment, before his shoulders slumped slightly and he continued into the store.

_Take the blade away from me  
I am a freak, I am afraid that  
All the blood escaping me won't end the pain  
And I'll be haunting all the lives that cared for me  
I died to be the white ghost  
Of the man that I was meant to be_

Curious, the prototype scanned the interior of the store as well as he could, heat sources determining only three occupants, and he settled back into his seat. Data had proven that, while the man was not well-liked by his peers, he was not likely at risk of anything more than basic harassment in public. He would not need assistance, and, even if he did, he would not welcome it.

Hank frowned slightly as more words crossed his auditory processors, meanings and nuances identified immediately. The brief spike of serotonin he had detected in Connor's system the moment the song had started suggested the man had positive feelings towards this particular track. Perhaps analyzing it further would allow him to understand his confusing psyche more thoroughly.

_I tried it like before and this time I made a deep cut  
I thought about my friends and the way I didn't give enough  
And I should have told my mother 'mom, I love you' like a good son  
But this life is overwhelming and I'm ready for the next one_

Staring at the dashboard as the lyrics cycled through his processes, Hank frowned. This was…not entirely unexpected, given his packed dossier of the man. Indeed, he was already partially familiar with the music, as it was one of the oldest mastered songs on the terminal in the detective's bedroom. However, the depth of the meaning in the words was relatively disturbing.

_Take the blade away from me  
I am a freak, I am afraid that  
All the blood escaping me won't end the pain  
And I'll be haunting all the lives that cared for me  
I died to be the white ghost  
Of the man that I was meant to be, yeah_

There was a clatter that barely came across his auditory systems. He turned, triangulating the source from the side of the building instead of the front door, and he tensed. The Lieutenant was pressed against the outer wall of the store, his chest mashed against the cinderblock construction, his left arm twisted behind him and wrenched high towards his shoulders. Two uniformed officers were holding him, their identities shielded by their caps, and one of them leaned forward and spit directly on the detective's face.

Before the prototype could react, they released him, and he dropped to the cold ground hard. The other officer kicked him in the side, saying something Hank couldn't hear over the music blasting through the radio, and Connor shifted in place but didn't appear to answer.

_I tried it once again and I think I might black out  
I should have left a letter but I had nothing to write about  
My blood is all around me, I get dizzy if I stand up  
The cutting part was easy but regretting it is so fucked_

There were suggestions and projections scrolling through his system, and Hank reached for the door handle before stopping. The data proved that Anderson would shun his aid, and would be angrily bitter at any interference instead. But as the officers turned and got into their cruiser, untouched, Hank's system shifted again, his thirium pump skipped, his knuckles turned white where his hands were balled into fists and the breaths he didn't have to pull stuttered against the back of his throat and wires burned behind his eyes and –

"Pop? You okay?"

Startled, the android turned, surprised to find the detective in the truck beside him, a cautiously concerned look on his face. There were shadows in his gaze, darker than usual, and Hank ran a scan. There was new dampness on his clothing from his fall to the snow. His left shoulder was showing signs of increased inflammation from the harsh treatment on the newly reset joint. There was a spread of drying foreign DNA on his cheek where he had wiped it off with his sleeve. There was an increased heat signature in his torso that indicated raising bruises.

But he was staring at the android like he was the only thing that mattered.

_Take the blade away from me  
I am a freak, I am afraid that  
All the blood escaping me won't end the pain  
And I'll be haunting all the lives that cared for me  
I died to be the white ghost  
Of the man that I was meant to be, yeah_

He had a bottle of thirium in one hand, holding it out towards Hank with those wrapped fingers, the cap already off and sitting on the center console. The pungent smell made him realize he needed to replenish his system, and there must have been something in his movements or speech pattern that had alerted the detective to this. Deviants rising, androids claiming emotion – to love, to need, to want – and Connor still could see his partner clearly enough to know that there was something wrong.

So he took the offered bottle and nodded slightly as the song started to wind down.

_I tried it once again and I think I went too far  
I cut a little deeper and the pressure stopped my heart  
I couldn't tell my mother 'mom, I love you', I'm a bad son  
This life is overwhelming and I'm ready for the next one_

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'm fine."

* * *

End Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Short chapter, but mostly because I think that the Bridge scene is just so impactful by itself. Almost all dialogue comes from the game and the various ways you can play this section out.

* * *

He had stopped to get cigarettes, thirium, and, surprisingly enough, something to eat.

The truck came to a stop in a snowy lot outside an empty park. It was local government property, Hank records stated, and he read the sign with his optics even though the information was displayed across his internal processes.

**AMBASSADOR BRIDGE K9 TRAINING FACILITY**

**OWNED & OPERATED BY DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT**

**DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF OUR FALLEN OFFICERS**

Connor said nothing as he got out, grabbing something out of one of his Molle bags and walked into the park, his ID badge opening the locked gate. The wide field was broken by a plethora of jumps, bridges, ladders, cones, and other implements, and there was a wide building on the right side that butted up to the fencing. Anderson walked to one of the far benches that overlooked the bridge the facility was named for, sitting along the back of it and staring out over the Detroit River.

Watching him silently, Hank waited for a few moments and didn't have to wonder at their location. Still, he searched his Social Relations program, then his human behavior prediction program, then the other one hundred and eighty eight programs dedicated to understanding organics. He referenced and cross-referenced everything against his file on the detective, preconstructing any conversation or interaction as best he could. Errors crossed his visual, and he grimaced.

** TOO MANY VARIABLES **

Of course.

But the variables gave him something to dedicate his processes to, at least, so he exited the truck and headed towards his partner, bypassing the lock with a pulse from his white palm. The snow was still coming down, drifting a little more lazily than before, but it still stuck fast to everything. He noted the man's body temperature as he approached and kept it in his visual, adhering to the wellbeing protocol.

Connor had already eaten the basic bologna sandwich he'd purchased at the gas station, the plastic wrapper tucked into his pocket, and he was absently tossing a worn tennis ball from hand to hand. Hank tracked his movements for a moment, the variables warning flashing across his vision, and he crossed his arms over his chest. The lights of the bridge and the city beyond lit up his optics, and he had completed identifying every building in sight before Connor's voice finally broke the silence.

"Nice view, huh?"

Hank nodded, giving a small murmur of assent, and the man continued, "We used to come here a lot, before…"

The way he trailed off made the wires in the android's chest burn, and he looked over at him. Anderson was gripping the ball tightly, denting it, and his form was tense.

**_Personal Question – Stop Remembering – Before – Go Back_**

The HUD suggestions didn't run the usual gamut, and Hank blinked at the various preconstructions that rose from each choice. They were all so…so personal, so clearly defiant of the detective's order to delete his friendly relationship protocol, and he wondered at it.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?" he ventured, something in him pushing the words from his vocal processor. Maybe it was the wellbeing protocol, maybe it was the clear and simple requirement to continue the investigation to its end, and so he needed the detective. Connor snorted softly and asked, "Do all androids ask so many personal questions, or is it just you?"

Hank took a step towards him, blue eyes sharpening as they scanned the human fully.

"Why are you so determined to kill yourself?"

Surprisingly enough, Connor actually relaxed a little, but the soft, sad smile that twitched his lips generated a familiar skip-beat in the android's thirium pump.

"Some things, I just can't forget. Whatever I do, they're always there…eating away at me." He paused, gaze fixed on the distant lights across the water, and he rolled the tennis ball in one hand. "I pull the trigger hundreds of times a day, and somehow never find myself on the wrong end of the bullet. So I kill myself a little every day, let the rest of the world do the same."

The glimmer in his brown eyes was visible even from Hank's position as he added, "That's probably difficult for you to understand, huh, pop? There's nothing very rational about it."

The prototype weighed the anxiety in his partner's voice and pressed, "At your home, I saw a photo of yourself and a group of people at a bar. It included your father, right?"

This time, the expected stiffness and pain of the previous query entered the man's frame, though Hank was unsure if it was at the topic or the blatant violation of privacy. He was therefore surprised to receive a flat answer a few moments later.

"My dad, yeah. My whole TIAC team, actually."

** SYNC STARTED**

** SYNC COMPLETED**

** COLLECTING DATA**

** PROCESSING DATA**

** TIAC – TACTICAL INTERVENTION AND CONTROL**

** SPECIALIZED OPERATIONS UNIT**

** MICHIGAN STATE AUTHORIZED CAPABILITIES: HOSTAGE RESCUE, BARRICADED SUBJECT, SNIPER, HIGH-RISK WARRANT AND APPREHENSION, HIGH-RISK SECURITY, AND TERRORISM RESPONSE OPERATIONS**

The tennis ball was in quick motion between the man's palms, and Hank shifted. Turning back towards the river, he took a few steps forward, returning to their common parade rest position behind his back, and he shifted processes firmly. The coding took some force, and he tried not to register that.

"We're not making any progress on this investigation," he said, heated air from his ventilation biocomponents billowing out of his mouth. "The deviants have nothing in common. They're all different models, produced at different times, in different places…" His frustration at his own inability to decipher the connection was obvious in his voice, and Connor cleared his throat behind him. "Well, there must be some link," he reasoned, the thunk of the ball passing between his hands audible.

Hank shifted as he reviewed all the evidence they'd collected, his processes ghosting through the information blindingly fast, and he frowned as snow began to dust his hair and jacket.

"Defective biocomponents, hardware issues – that couldn't trigger cascade faults in their software, right?" Connor asked as he stood, coming up behind him. He bounced the tennis ball on the concrete walkway, head down as his eyes tracked the object, and the prototype shook his head. He had long since come to terms with the man's unusually deep understanding of android physiology. "Not likely."

Nodding, Anderson paced slowly, cycling between bouncing the ball and tossing it back and forth, and his brow was furrowed. Hank ignored the fact that the precipitation was steadily collecting on the man's body, and his physical temperature was dropping to hover around 96.8F.

"Calling it situational software instability just means we have no fucking idea," Connor continued, huffing. "That's not gonna satisfy either of our bosses."

More data flowing through his system, Hank mentally opened one of the thicker files and turned to his partner, suddenly animated. "What they _do_ have in common is this obsession with RA9. It's almost like some kind of…myth. Something they invented that wasn't part of their original program."

Pausing mid toss, one arm up and fingers open to grab the ball that skittered away towards the bench, Connor looked at him first in surprise, then in resignation. "Androids…believing in God." Hands going to his hips, the detective's tone was off as he muttered, "Fuck, what's this world coming to?"

He wandered over to the railing, leaning his forearms over the icy metal, and he sighed lowly. Hank watched him, head tilting as he crossed his arms back over his chest and resolved not to reach for his coin. He was entering extremely unfamiliar territory – if he was honest, the man was comprised _exclusively_ of unfamiliar territory – but he was determined to make some headway in his wellbeing protocol.

"You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant. Is it something to do with what happened at the Eden Club?" The vast majority of his processes urged the man to respond with a negative. The continued skip-beats and shifts in his core software were leaning towards a positive. Perhaps discussing the events could help explain the odd malfunctions continuing to occur with the prototype.

"Those two girls…they just wanted to be together. They really seemed in love."

Connor was quiet, his voice carrying towards the river, and Hank judged his HUD with a critical eye. There were fewer choices than he was used to seeing; it was like his Human Relations program was rebooting, leaving him with only cold, rational responses.

"Nothing in their program allows them to love or desire anything, detective. They're machines. They can simulate human emotions, but they're machines. And machines don't feel anything. They don't want anything. They're deviants, end of story."

The steel that came out of his mouth seemed to weave through the air and enter Connor's spine. He straightened as Hank blinked at the emptiness of his words, unsure as to what process or program had even generated the phrasing, and dropped his arms as the human turned towards him. The android had seen many looks on the Lieutenant's face during their partnership. Anger, fear, pain, confusion, and multiple dark, uncategorized, indefinable expressions that defied explanation.

Whatever was on Connor's face now was simply _dangerous_.

"What about you, Hank? You look human. You sound human. But what are you really?"

The android wondered if the minor concussion that the man had previously suffered was making a resurgence before he realized that the words had more than one meaning. He checked his HUD again, depending on it to guide his words. Wherever the man's mental state was, Hank was sure anything he said would antagonize him. He opted for the truth, harsh as it was.

"I'm a machine. I was designed to accomplish a task, and I know why I exist, and who designed me. I have a reason to live. I guess that's the difference between us, Lieutenant."

There was a quick flash of teeth as Connor chuckled humorlessly, his voice as cold as the surrounding air. "Ah, so, saving my ass on the highway? Pulling me up on the roof? Picking my ass up off my floor in my house and shoving food down my throat? What was that, pop?"

Skip-beat, shift.

"You…advised we were not partners, detective, repeatedly and vocally. You do not want a friend, or a drinking buddy. Despite the name you have given me, you do not seem to desire any sort of connectivity to myself or anyone else, familial or otherwise. I…I don't know what you want me to be, Lieutenant," he finally admitted, and Connor frowned as he stepped closer.

"You could've shot those two girls, but you didn't," he snapped, coming directly into the android's personal space, and Hank resisted the combat routine command to step back. "Why didn't you shoot, Hank?"

_I don't want to deactivate._

The memory came again, and he felt an odd pressure in his thirium pump regulator. "Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?" Connor punctuated his question with a forceful push against his shoulder, and Hank stumbled back slightly, off balance.

Why didn't he shoot? It wasn't in his programming to falter. He was designed to hunt and capture deviants. He had them, he had a reason, he would have had both active and deactivated samples for Cyberlife to study. Why didn't he shoot?

"I just…decided not to shoot. That's all."

The protest was weak, ineffective, and he knew that his own blue optics were wide as the words tumbled out. They were so unusual, so soft, he almost didn't recognize his own synthetic voice.

Where was Cyberlife's pride and joy RK800?

"I thought nothing else mattered to you but your goddamn investigation, Hank," Connor nearly growled as he circled the android, steps slow. "You've got no doubts, no mistakes, no weaknesses. Human being, right? Just like me, only perfect."

Yes – _yes! _That's what he was supposed to be!

But his pump was skipping, his software kept shifting, and wires were burning where he knew there was no overload of amperage. He was a prototype; there would be flaws the technicians would find and eliminate during the course of his existence, right?

Existence.

What an odd concept for a machine.

"Your processors have probably calculated that my personal issues are clouding my judgement, that my fallible human point of view is just different and therefore inconsequential," Connor muttered, shoulders abruptly sagging, and he stepped back from Hank. The android hadn't moved during the lieutenant's tirade, and the lack of response seemed to break something in the man.

Blue met brown, and there were several seconds of silence between them. Hank tried to bring his racing processes to a stop, to focus on the two things on the back of his optics that made sense to him for the moment: wellbeing protocol in place, body temperature 96.1F.

There was a familiar sound, then, that made Hank physically startle: metal on Kydex. Connor had pulled his service piece, but his arm was lax, the weapon gripped loosely in his right hand.

"Are you afraid to die, Hank?"

So many HUD choices that reflected none of the contradicting processes flooded his program. No – not afraid. He couldn't die, because he wasn't alive. But to be interrupted before finishing the investigation would be…regrettable.

His silence was too long, apparently, because there was a flash of light on steel, and the gun was moving up…up…up…

And the barrel was pressed underneath Connor's chin, the slide parallel to his throat, the worn bandages on his finger resting in their usual place on the trigger. Hank inhaled sharply, all HUD suggestions shattering into fragments. Odd electrical waves burst from his regulator, flooding his system, and he unconsciously lifted his hands slightly in a calming manner.

Connor's eyes were dark, nearly black in the harsh light of the lamppost above them, and his body trembled slightly.

"What will happen to you if I pull this trigger and your investigation fails, huh? You get deactivated, and then what? Nothing? Oblivion? Android heaven?"

His voice was steady, and his finger tightened. Hank opened his mouth to speak, then found no words. Connor didn't move, pinning him in place with his eyes, and the android finally said softly, "You know you're not going to shoot yourself, Lieutenant. You're just trying to provoke a reaction."

The detective shrugged with his left arm, wincing slightly at the pull, and he refuted, "You've got that big android brain. You know my file. Run the odds, asshole."

Hank shook his head, refusing to check the numbers. He knew they'd be in the single digits. "I know where your anger comes from, Lieutenant. I've told you before, you need to resolve your personal issues."

Evidently he had spoken incorrectly, and Hank silently cursed his lack of Social Relations program suggestions as Connor shoved the gun harder into his own skin. His tone was sharp as he snapped, "You think you're so fucking smart, always one step ahead of me, huh? Answer the fucking question."

Swallowing an unnecessary buildup of analysis fluid that had collected on his tongue, Hank finally answered quietly, "I doubt there's a heaven for androids, detective. But…nothing. There would be nothing."

Anderson relaxed just enough that Hank's advanced optics could detect it, but it wasn't enough for him to lower the gun. "Having existential doubts, pop? Sure you're not going deviant too?"

_I don't want to deactivate._

"I self-test regularly. I know what I am, and what I am not."

There was a level of assessment in the young man's eyes that he hadn't seen before, and Connor asked rhetorically, "You sure about that?"

There was no answer needed, not that Hank would know what to say with his HUD apparently frozen at the sight of Connor threatening his own life. Like the roof, his preconstruction program abruptly ran the scenario without his conscious activation.

**_Connor gives an exhausted smile, exhaling slowly, breath clouding the air between them. It obscures the sight of the gun for just a moment, just long enough for his finger to apply the perfect amount of pressure on the trigger. His eyes are still open as the explosion sounds, the hollow point blasting upwards through his jaw and skull, blowing a red mist out the top of his head. He wavers on his feet for his last heartbeat before he collapses to the ground. The snow muffles the sound of his body as it falls, the gun clattering out of his limp fingers, and blood pools around his head like a halo. Brown eyes stare sightlessly at the bridge, and he still smiles._**

Hank blinked away the preconstruction with a sharp inhale, taking a step forward, part of him recognizing that it was nothing but false data. There was that burning at his pump, though, and behind his optics. It felt…it _felt_ so real.

Whatever the detective saw in Hank's gaze, it was what he had been looking for. He sighed, the sound deep and bone-weary, and he holstered the weapon. Turning, he walked back to the bench and snagged the ball off the ground.

Stunned at the sudden change, utterly wrong-footed and off kilter, Hank called, "Where are you going?"

Not slowing as he walked back towards the parking lot, Connor responded over his shoulder, "To the range. I need to think."

* * *

End Chapter Six


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Stratford Tower….I was so torn on how to do this. Finally I just let the plot bunnies run. Hopefully everyone is still enjoying this.

* * *

The air was crisp in the Zen Garden.

Seasons changed in his mind palace with Amanda's orders, something Hank had no control over, and he shifted deeper into his trench coat. His systems didn't recognize temperatures outside anything detrimental to his operational status, but still, the chill made him tense. And he wasn't quite sure why.

His steps were less purposeful than usual as he moved over the familiar pathways, his programming distracted. Normally able to focus himself with a simple command, he instead found his memory banks randomly accessing various parts of the ongoing investigation. The usual flow of his cybernetic processes – clean, streamlined, _efficient_ – was instead a darting shoal of data-mass silverfish that slipped in and out of his coding. He was having difficulties catching even a single piece of information, and he looked down at Amanda and thought she –

_**CONNOR PUNCHING HIS STEERING WHEEL AND SCREAMING**_

_**GAVIN SNEERING WHILE EYEING THEM BOTH DOWN A LOADED WEAPON**_

_**TRUCK APPROACHING AND BARELY DODGING**_

_**RUNNING ACROSS THE ROOF, GRABBING HIM JUST – **_

_**HAND HANGING TO THE FLOOR, IS HE EVEN BREATHING OR –**_

_**GUN JERKING, BULLET FLYING, BLOOD MISTING, HEART STOPPING**_

_i dont want to deactivate_

Hank swallowed and forced himself to smile.

"Hello, Henry. I thought you might enjoy a little cruise."

She was lying, Hank suddenly, guiltily realized as he climbed into the small boat, expertly keeping his balance. He was a machine. He couldn't enjoy anything. He had no concept of pleasure or fulfillment beyond succeeding in completing mission parameters. She didn't appear to recognize the quick flash of yellow at his temple as he pushed them away from what served as the dock, the water rippling around them as he idly rowed them in a slow circle around the garden.

"I love this place. Everything is so calm and peaceful, far from the noise of the world," she murmured from underneath her paper umbrella, dark eyes tracking the fall foliage that decorated the trees. Hank said nothing, desperately trying to bring his thoughts under control. The oars moved smoothly through the pond, and he brought them up to a resting position. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he interlaced his fingers together and looked to the side.

There was an unusual flare in his thirium pump at the return of his previous thought: she was _lying_ to him. She was…she was his everything, the center of his reason for being. Why was she lying to him?

Connor had never lied to him.

Hank stared at the leaves that drifted through the air, frozen at the odd thought. What was wrong with him?

"Tell me, what have you discovered?" Amanda asked, her chin dipping slightly as she pinned him with an expectant look. Hank blinked and his fingers tightened around themselves.

"My relationship with Lieutenant Anderson is…problematic. He continues to struggle with psychological issues," Hank explained, and the sentence seemed insufficient. Summing up the man's life in seven words almost felt like a betrayal to everything he had survived. "I suspect it clouds his judgement regarding deviants," he added, a faint grimace crossing his features.

Amanda's eyes narrowed and there was a shift in the breeze that brought a promise of ice to Hank's sensors. "Nothing matters more than your investigation. What's happening is too important. Don't let Anderson or anyone else get in your way."

He nodded needlessly and shifted the oars again to disguise his processes. He had no doubt that Anderson would agree – there was nothing more important than the case. But then again, the detective likely figured that there was nothing less important than himself, either. The constant dichotomy was like a virus eating at his core: deviants wanted nothing more than to live, and the Lieutenant wanted to die. Trying to work around both simultaneously was…he couldn't define the term of the processes that surrounded it.

"I found two deviants at the Eden Club. I hoped to learn something but…they managed to escape." Hank had to look away as he said this, his own unease nearly a taste on his analysis system. He was unsure how much of his visual processes his handler had access to, and with her obvious dislike of the detective, he had no doubt her wrath would be venomous if she knew his hand in letting the deviants go.

"That's too bad. You seemed so close to stopping them," she said softly, and the android didn't look at her as he moved the oars again, cutting through the water. He didn't know why he was trying to protect the human from his superior – the wellbeing protocol was silent in his head for the moment. But there was a burning in his thirium pump, and he tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear as he looked back down at the space between his feet.

He had never avoided his sun this much. He had never dropped his eyes from the beauty of her face in a childlike urge to hide. He was bereft, stripped of her warmth by his own choice, and he clenched one hand into a fist, wrapping his other fingers around it, hiding the whiteness of his plastimetal poking through his skin projection.

Amanda cocked her head and leaned forward, a calculating look on her face.

"You seem…lost, Henry. Lost and perturbed."

Lost? Was that something androids could become? But maybe…that was the word he was looking for to define the contradictory processes he was continually finding at the forefront of his programming. A deviant wanting to live, a human wanting to die, and Hank's entire existence was to destroy the first and ignore the second. Androids were hardwired to preserve human life in all circumstances, not endanger it. Hank's software was unique, different in all ways, though he retained a reservation against killing. But he could shoot through Connor in order to take out a deviant target, if his programming determined it was the best course of action.

And Anderson…maybe the detective would want that.

Hank recalled the sight of the man's gun pressed against the underside of his own jaw, and he shook his head slightly.

"I…I thought I knew what I had to do." He knew that his hesitation had caught her off guard when her grip tightened on her umbrella. He was frustrated, and his sharper words were evidence of that. "But now I realize it's not that simple."

It was a truth he had discovered in between wind and smoke and music that vibrated in his head: _the world could not be coded._

"You had your gun trained on those deviants at the Eden Club. Why didn't you shoot?"

The memory arose before his eyes, and he let it play. Their fear, their terror, their desperation – it was so…so _human_. How was he supposed to destroy something like that? They just wanted to be. They just wanted to exist. They just wanted to – live.

_I don't want to deactivate._

"I don't know."

The words slipped from his lips before he could snatch them back, and his eyes widened. He looked up, LED cycling yellow for a moment, and he saw the way her form became immoveable and solid in place. He was surprised the boat didn't sink with the change.

"I…I don't know," he said again, louder, cementing his damnation, and the wind grew colder.

Taking refuge in movement, he grabbed the oars again as his own processes spun, and awaited her sentence. Whatever it was, she was still his morning star. She was his light. He had to follow her brightness even if it burned him away into dust.

"If your investigation doesn't make progress soon, I will replace you, Henry. You and the detective."

_Replace_. It had a different meaning for Cyberlife. Hank would be gone. And Connor…he would be something else. Further disgraced and run out of Detroit, if he was lucky. Brake failure on the way home, if he wasn't. That file on the man shimmered in the back of the prototype's visual; would he even care? Would he see the lights on the dash flash with warnings and simply smile that sad smile, close his eyes, and press his foot against the accelerator?

The wellbeing protocol started up again so quickly he almost flinched, but he settled for nodding physically instead. "I understand."

_He didn't._

There was a tremble through the world that came from Amanda's side of the link, and it made the garden shimmer and rumble. She looked around, confused and unsure for the first time in Hank's existence, and her lips parted in a silent gasp.

"Something's happening…something serious." The eyes she raised to the prototype were hard and unwavering. "Hurry, Henry. Time is running out."

* * *

They met in the lobby of the Stratford Tower.

Hank's taxi was caught in some of the frantic traffic surrounding the deviant's broadcast, the snowy conditions not helping, so he wasn't surprised to find his partner's truck already in sight at the far end of the block. He noted, though, that the driver's window was still rolled down, and the way the right tire was up on the sidewalk instead of on the street. There was a glare of light in the back window that he hadn't seen before, and he realized that the Colt M4 Carbine rifle that was usually mounted there was missing.

Keeping those observations to himself, Hank headed towards the bustling building and crossed the police line without any issues; it was Detective Collins at the entry, and he jerked his chin in greeting.

"Con's here – been here for a bit, actually. He was one of the first ones on scene. Think he's giving a briefing in the lobby." Nodding, Hank walked in the direction indicated and heard his partner before he saw him.

"…and Home-Sec's got the control booth in process. Their techs are taking any biological evidence and flying it to their lab in Lansing. Give their transports an escort to the airstrip when they leave, understood?" Coming around a large projection of the tower in the middle of the lobby, the android found Connor at the main desk. He was surrounded by a group of both plainclothes and uniformed men and women, their logos and displayed badges revealing their various agency affiliations. None of them belonged to the DPD, and they were all therefore giving the Lieutenant the respect he was due.

Standing back, Hank took in the scene with an evaluating gaze.

Connor was in familiar clothes, to the android's fond exasperation, but they were covered with tactical gear. He had on a black combat vest, some Molle pouches strapped to it, and he had elbow and knee guards snugged into place. His missing M4 was secured over his back, and while he carried his service pistol on a drop-holster on his right thigh, a second handgun, a Glock 17, was strapped to his left. There was a helmet sitting on the counter beside him, and his hair was unusually mussed from wearing it. He had a tablet in his hands, though he didn't reference it as he spoke.

"FBI has control of the roof and they've posted snipers on adjacent buildings at Bravo and Delta in case of further attempted incursions. Local LEOs are handling traffic cordon protocols with a two block radius, subject to expansion. Drones are conducting aerial security. Ops are channel two, TAC is channel six. Channels four and ten have android dispatchers to assist. Tower Command is running out of the security office on floor six, but there's a secondary command post at side Alpha in the SWAT bus. Any questions?"

There was silence, and Connor nodded, gesturing towards them with gloved hands. The material ended where his bandages began, and Hank noted that they were extremely worn and needed to be replaced. The dozen men and women dispersed quickly, scattering to their roles, and Anderson immediately turned to his tablet and began punching in some information.

Hank tried not to notice the way his thirium pump skipped and that wire at the back of his eyes burned while a process tried to post an odd 'mission successful' notice in his sight. There was no mission here, but…but there was something about seeing the detective operate like this, obviously in his element, his voice firm and unwavering and _not screaming _and his body straight and _not falling_.

The android was…satisfied, he finally identified, as he moved forward. Satisfied to see Detroit's youngest Lieutenant being appreciated for his knowledge and training, for his experience and leadership. And it was a satisfaction as clean and pure and fulfilling as succeeding in the toughest missions.

Humans might call it pride.

"Thought Cyberlife was making you walk – took your sweet time, pop," Anderson said without looking up, his eyes still on the tablet. Hank smiled slightly at the moniker and inclined his head slightly. "I would apologize for making you wait, detective, but I heard that's not the case."

Finally setting aside the tablet, Connor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hank's false stomach twisted slightly at the exhaustion he could read in the man's vitals; he hadn't slept since he'd last seen him, thirty nine hours before.

"Yeah, well, one of the ranges is right around the corner. The news was playing in the control booth, and there were a few of us ready to roll. We pulled up just as they jumped off the roof. We backed up the primary security team and then swept the building. This place is fucking massive and built like a maze – took for-God's-ever," he muttered, dropping his hand.

Leaving the tablet and grabbing his helmet, Connor clipped it to his vest in a practiced movement and headed towards the elevators, Hank immediately following.

"It was a group of four androids, and they knew the building. They were extremely well organized. I'm still trying to figure out how they got all the way to the seventy ninth floor without being noticed," he started to explain as he punched the button for the lift. Hank frowned, beginning to consider the options as they waited. "They attacked two guards in the hallway – knocked them out, didn't kill them. After they stormed the control room, one of the employees managed to get away but he's in shock. Medics have already transported him to the ED; he wasn't any help."

There was a soft ding, and the elevator arrived, the doors sliding open to admit the passengers. Swiping a keycard and repocketing it, Anderson tapped in the number for the floor. "Two humans and three androids were in the room, that's it. They held them hostage while they broadcast their message, then fled when the initial strike team approached. No casualties on either side."

Hank shifted slightly in place, absently reaching for his coin, and he began to dance it over his knuckles as the elevator rose smoothly. "Pretty much all I've got at this point. Haven't been able to do much investigating; I had command until one of the Home-Sec guys finally got here about twenty minutes ago." Something dark entered his voice, and he glanced over at Hank and muttered, "Wasn't trying to leave you all the work."

Giving a shrug that didn't disrupt his coin's movements, Hank answered with a smile, "This is what I'm here for, detective."

Then he paused, noticing that Connor's eyes were fixed on the way he was juggling the gold metal, and he wasn't surprised. The calibration exercises were flawless and impossible by human standards, and he'd seen children as well as adults stop short if they saw the way he moved it across and between his hands.

"Where…where did you learn that?"

There was a strange hitch in the man's voice that Hank hadn't been expecting, and he flipped the coin from thumb to thumb as he continued to evaluate their current case. "It's a programmed skill for higher processing androids, Lieutenant, and serves to calibrate our physical responses and electrical impulses. As far as I am aware, not many units require this type of calibration. Only military and – "

"Law enforcement," Connor finished quietly, his focus on the doors in front of him again, but Hank noted the way his jaw was working silently. Blinking at the obvious distress, he pocketed his coin and said nothing until the doors opened into the bustle of the crime scene.

Hank's world devolved into scanning, analyzing, and searching. He was thankful to put away the strangeness that had happened in the Zen Garden and to have something to focus on. It helped him ignore the snide looks from the DPD units posted at the doors as Connor passed by and the way the detective seemed too tired to even register the commentary.

"I can't believe they let him command this scene for even a minute after the last disaster," one man muttered to the other, glancing at the detective as he wandered to the main screen. "Fucking hook's gonna get us all killed one of these days."

"And he's got an android partner? Guess the apple didn't fall far from that tree, huh?" the second one asked, shaking his head.

That made Hank pause, though, and he re-searched the data he had pulled from the photo he'd found in the Lieutenant's home. There was no android in that picture, and there was no reference to one in any other report he'd found regarding the incident.

"Lieutenant, you know Special Agent Perkins?"

It was Chris Miller talking, an officer that had something other than disdain in his voice when addressing the detective, and Hank headed to the men in question. Connor glanced over and nodded slightly, extending a hand. The FBI agent didn't reciprocate, and Anderson grinned ruefully.

"Guess you've heard I'm in charge of investigating the scene for Detroit PD," he figured out loud, and Hank eyed the other human as he came to parade rest by the detective. Perkins was tall, built like an iron stake, and there was something in his build that reminded the android of Gavin Reed. Indeed, the agent glanced at him and asked coldly, "What's that?"

Before Hank could answer, Connor crossed his arms and responded, "His name is Hank, and he's the android sent by Cyberlife to assist in the deviancy cases. He's my partner."

The pronoun and the firm defense of his existence made something burn and twist both pleasantly and unpleasantly in the prototype's chassis. "Androids investigating androids, huh? You sure you want an android hanging around? I mean, after everything that happened with your team…"

Connor didn't answer, and Hank refused to give the man any ammunition towards the detective by reacting himself. Still, he internalized the data.

"Whatever. The FBI will take over the investigation and you'll soon be off the case," he said as an aside, and Anderson blinked at the information but didn't bite. "And detective, you watch your step. Don't fuck up my crime scene."

Perkins headed over to one of his own subordinates without another word, and Connor relaxed slightly, running a hand through hair that wouldn't be tamed without a long shower.

"What a fucking prick."

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Hank found himself silently agreeing with the sentiment even though his Social Relations program wouldn't allow him to vocalize it. Anderson's focus was already returning to the main screen, and he frowned at the white-skinned android displayed.

"Think that's RA9?" he asked, glancing over at Hank, and the prototype cycled through the peaceful message the unidentified model had broadcast, nodding. "Deviants say RA9 will set them free. This android seems to have that objective."

Considering the panel in front of him, Connor flipped through the screens in front of him, a steadily confused expression taking over his features.

"Wait a second. There's CCTV everywhere in the building – of course there is. But they had live feeds of the outside hallway pulled up here. We knew the attackers didn't break in, but…the staff would have seen what was happening. Why did they let them in?"

Hank looked down at the indicated panel, his own processes identifying the same inconsistency. "Tower operations require all personnel to be identified before access is granted to any secured location. They would have checked the cameras."

Connor looked over at him, concern shifting to realization, and both he and Hank stepped back at the same time. Reaching out with a slow hand, the detective turned the chair that was still pulled up in front of the station. The blue lettering across the back of the chair was clear as day, the marking triangle glaring like a beacon.

Jerking in place, Anderson turned and asked quickly, "Chris, where did you put the station's androids?"

Surprised, the officer gestured towards a back room, the door open and inviting. "There's a small kitchen back there. There's no evidence they were involved, but we didn't know what else to do with them."

Connor looked at Hank and quietly said, "If one of them saw the attack and said nothing, then there's a deviant in there. Neither the FBI or Home-Sec have any idea how to handle questioning deviants."

Shifting so that he was turned away from the rest of the control room, his voice lowered enough that it wouldn't carry, the prototype murmured, "If I can get in there and question them without interference, I should be able to identify and capture the suspect without any complications. However, I believe Agent Perkins would be reluctant to allow me in there without an escort, and I doubt you would suffice."

His grin wide and feral, the Lieutenant just said, "Leave that part to me, huh? You just be careful."

Then he whipped around and stalked directly towards the two officers who had snarked at him on the way in. Without hesitation, he grabbed the first stunned officer by the front of his uniform and shoved him against the wall, face flushing.

"You think I didn't fucking hear you earlier, cocksucker?! Be a goddamn man and say that shit to my face!" he shouted, shaking off the hands of the second officer who was trying to pry him off. The whole of the room was focused on the altercation, and Hank started to drift through them towards the kitchen even as he watched the distraction play out.

"S-sorry, Lieutenant," the man choked out, though he was obviously seething. Ignoring the apology, Connor growled, "Sorry piece of shit is what you are. Think you could have done something different? Pop quiz, asshole: building is loaded with thermite bombs and you've only got one shot. Think you could've made it?"

The second officer was still trying to pull him off even as Collins came huffing through the doorway. Hank slipped into the kitchen as he heard the young detective snap, "I asked you a question! Could you have made the fucking shot!?"

Pushing aside the struggle he could still hear ongoing, Hank focused on what he found in the small room. Three androids, identical JB300 models all wearing the same uniform, were lined up along the far wall. Hank knew he had only minutes, so he dismissed any formalities. He knew the easiest way to find deviants was to observe unusual, nonmechanical behavior, so he stood back far enough that he could easily focus on all three units simultaneously.

"I am rather pressed for time, so I will be brief. One of you is a deviant." No reaction, though he didn't exactly expect it to be that easy. "Two of you are likely factory-set units with no outstanding issues, and are therefore innocent in this situation. However, if the deviant does not expose itself, then two other androids will also be shut down out of an abundance of caution. There is no need for all of you to be destroyed."

_There_. A twitch of the eye in the android furthest from the door. But it could be programmed to scan, Hank deduced, especially given their line of work. It wasn't enough. He took a step forward, though, his coat brushing the back of his thighs, and he absently pushed some hair out of his face.

"If you give yourself up, I may be able to convince the humans not to destroy you. My partner has a rather soft spot when it comes to androids, even if it's not always immediately visible."

Again, that same android looked over at him, and Hank moved closer, nearly convinced. "If you don't give yourself up and come peacefully, then we'll simply switch all of you off. Cyberlife will search your memory and tear you apart, piece by piece, for analysis. You're going to be destroyed."

And then the other android suddenly moved with a purpose. It took Hank by surprise – he wasn't expecting it to lash out like it did. He wasn't expecting the surge of wrongness and burning in his torso as his thirium pump regulator was wrenched from his chassis with force. His optics glitching sporadically, he barely saw the kitchen knife flash in the light as it descended towards his face.

He wrenched his free arm up, hand wrapping around the wrist of the android, skin automatically pulling back as he held back the blade with waning strength. Bent back over the counter, the smaller android had the advantage, and Hank almost choked on the horrific sensation that was overwhelming the shutdown counter and mission failure warnings that covered his sight.

_I don't want to deactivate._

Cybernetically connected to his attacker, information he didn't recognize blurring through his programming, he didn't hear the pounding of feet at the far end of the room. He did, however, register the abrupt pressure and then explosion of sound and heat as thirium rained over him and the deviant dropped to the floor. Hank staggered, one hand grasping his chest, and he blinked at the red numbers in his vision.

"Hank! Hang on, pop, hang on, hang on!" There were suddenly hands on his shoulders as he stumbled to his knees, a deep groan coming up from his ventilation biocomponents as his thirium pump rate began to spiral out of control. "I'm gonna save you, hang on! Christ, not again, not _again!_"

The prototype couldn't see anything beyond the blue-grey fade and countdown, and he felt himself list sideways into something solid and warm. He felt movement around the electrified opening in his chassis, and he hissed, curling in on himself, as his timer began to blink.

"Deviant…" he murmured, needing to get the information across, even if it killed him. "It was…a deviant."

Firm fingers abruptly pulled his palm away from his damaged torso, and there was a clicking noise as the critical biocomponent was replaced. Inhaling sharply as his vision shifted back to normal and all warnings cleared instantly, Hank blinked rapidly and identified his position. He was slumped on the floor, leaning heavily on Connor, his upper body resting on the detective's legs and chest. His jacket and dress shirt had been ripped open and his entire front was coated liberally with blue blood.

Anderson was looking down at him with panic, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and pupils nearly blown. There was thirium smeared on his cheek and along his arms and gloved and bandaged hands, and his vest was also covered in it. He was trembling, his pulse through the roof, and his face had paled horribly. There was something deeper than fear on his face, though, something nearly soul-shattering, and the bandages on his fingers scraped roughly over Hank's sensors as they ran over his flashing LED.

Shaking him in his arms, Connor asked quickly, "Hank? Hank, are you all right? Pop!?"

Realizing he hadn't answered the man and was still leaning on him fully, the android started to respond, but his processes were suddenly flooded with everything that had just happened.

"Okay…" he whispered, staring at nothing, and his mechanical body trembled slightly. His LED was blazing a bright enough red that he could see it in his own peripheral.

"Are you hurt?!" the young Lieutenant asked again, eyes tracking over him, searching for more damage he hadn't seen.

Leaning forward, taking some of his own weight, Hank's voice was very quiet and small as he answered, "I'm okay…"

Letting him up to sit on the floor next to him, Connor wiped a hand over his mouth, unintentionally applying more blue blood to his face, and he shivered as he stared at the android. "Jesus! You scared the shit outta me! For fuck sake, Hank! I told you to be careful! Why didn't you call for help?" His vitals were high enough that it was almost as though he had been attacked instead of the android. Remembering the officer-involved shooting information he'd downloaded, Hank glanced to the side, finding what he expected. The Lieutenant's M4 was on the floor next to him, the safety off, and Hank's scanners could make out fresh gunshot residue on the barrel.

Glancing at the body of the deviant, a single bullet wound in its head, Hank explained softly, "I was connected to its memory…when you fired. I felt it die…like I was dying."

Face twisting in something close to real emotion, the prototype looked at his partner and breathed, "I was _scared_."

Connor stared at him, unmoving, freezing in place, and Hank looked away and his words and voice gained strength and he continued, "I saw something, in its memory. A word, painted on a piece of rusty metal. _Jericho_."

Anderson said nothing, his eyes fixed firmly on his partner, and the expected thunder of boots in the background at the doorway finally happened.

"What the fuck happened in here?" Perkins snapped, surging into the kitchen, his pistol drawn and coming to bear on the prototype. The detective didn't pause as he immediately stood, turning and placing himself between the pissed agent and Hank.

"We did our jobs, no thanks to you. Hank found a deviant in here – same asshole who let the others in, I'd assume. So glad the FBI was here to make sure we didn't _fuck up _their crime scene," he snapped, and Perkins glanced around him, taking in the situation.

"You fucking shot it? We need these assholes operational."

There was thirium on Connor's teeth when he grinned toothily. "Really? Been investigating this shit for awhile but didn't have that intel – thanks."

Slowly stepping forward, the agent lowered his gun but didn't holster it and he leaned in close to the Lieutenant and said lowly, "Cole would've taken it intact." Anderson didn't breathe, his face going ashen, and his lips thinned even as his hands tightened into fists. Hank watched from the floor, auditory processors recording everything, and his blue eyes narrowed at Perkins.

"Too bad you dropped a goddamn building on him."

Hank didn't much care for Agent Perkins.

The android fully expected Connor to lash out, to turn the energy coursing through him into a violent rage on the other man. But instead, he seemed to relax, head dipping slightly, and he murmured, "Yeah, too bad."

Turning, he knelt and grabbed his M4, thumbing the safety and pulling the strap to hang it over his back. The movement messed up his hair, shifting it so it hung in his eyes, and he twisted on the ball of his foot so that he was next to Hank.

"Come on. Let's get you checked out by a technician," he said quietly, pulling one of his arms over his shoulder. Nodding slightly, systems still rekeying with the abrupt and harsh treatment of the critical biocomponent, Hank allowed him to pull him to standing. Connor wrapped one arm around his back as he teetered slightly, and the grip on his wrist tightened, slipping with the slick blue blood on his gloves.

"Apologies, Lieutenant," he started, but Anderson was already shaking his head. "Should've expected that. Gyroscope still trying to sync with your thirium pump – sorry."

Hank refused to look over at him as they started moving forward, refused to give the man's enemies anything more to target him with, and Connor guided the android around the cold agent, keeping himself as a buffer. They made their way to the elevator, people parting for them in waves. Anderson kept his head down, his eyes barely forward, and his steps were almost too even to be human. When they were finally in the quiet lift, the doors getting ready to close, Hank was finally able to catch a glimpse of his partner's face.

Dead eyes, and a smile.

Tired, sad smile.

* * *

End Chapter Seven


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: A bit of a twist, hopefully believable, but I really don't like Kamski. Also, a little original bit here in order to give some more Connor whump/protectiveness and Hank caring for him. Still a lot of canon dialogue.

* * *

The snow had continued to fall throughout the night, making their drive to Kamski's remote residence slow and arduous. It was their normal routine during the ride – window, smoke, music – and for that, Hank was grateful. He wasn't sure how he could defend his words the day before in the Stratford Tower, or if he could even explain them. Fear was an emotion, something that humans and animals experienced and deviants simulated.

There were so many things he didn't understand.

They were nearing their destination when Connor's phone trilled, and he punched the radio to queue the call up instead.

"Anderson," he answered briefly, and the speakers filled the car with Fowler's steady voice. "Connor, I wanted you to hear it from me first. Chris was on patrol last night, and he was attacked by a bunch of deviants." The truck swerved slightly, and the detective cursed before correcting his course.

"Relax, Lieutenant. He's fine. He said he was saved by Markus himself, actually. He's pretty shaken up, and he's in shock. But he's alive and home, resting with his family."

Staring out the windshield, his wrapped fingers tight on the wheel, Connor murmured, "What the hell, Jeffrey?"

There was a strained chuckle, and Hank tried and failed to process the programming that crossed his vision at the information. "I don't know, kid. Feels like everything is flipped on its head right now. I've got a meeting in an hour with the feds, and I think we both know how that's gonna go. Hopefully this lead of yours pans out. Good luck."

The line cut out without a farewell, and for the first time in days, the cab was nearly silent. They rolled up on the rambling mansion and Connor let the truck idle in park for a moment as he stared out at the building. Trying to organize his own thoughts, Hank waited until the detective sorted through his responses to the phone call and finally turned off the vehicle and got out.

"How did you find Kamski?" Hank asked as they began the long walk up to the entry. Connor shrugged, his beanie hiding part of his face from sight, and answered, "I made a few calls to some old buddies in Cyberlife. Here we are." Frowning, the prototype pressed, "But Kamski left Cyberlife ten years ago. Why did you want to meet him?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Connor had a troubled look on his face that didn't appear related to his continued exhaustion. "This guy created the first android to pass the Turing Test. He's the founder of Cyberlife. I figured that if anybody could tell us about deviants, it's him. But the closer we get…I've got a bad feeling about this. I don't think we should've come here."

Eager to chase the shadows from the man's face, Hank gave him a wink and asked, "Bad feeling? Maybe you should get _your_ program checked – maybe _you've_ got a glitch, Lieutenant."

Connor blinked, then chuckled, the darkness in his eyes easing somewhat. "Laugh it up, asshole. Shit, you're telling jokes now. Social Relations protocols are really shifting into fifth gear."

There was that same satisfaction, mission accomplished sensation over his processes, and Hank smiled slightly as they came to the door. Anderson didn't get a chance to knock before the door opened to grant them access. An android clothed in a blue dress stood before them, a calm smile on her face, and she gave them a slight nod.

"Hello, I'm Lieutenant Anderson of the Detroit Police Department. This is my partner, Hank. We're here to see Elijah Kamski. We need to ask him a few questions regarding android software corruption, if he's available."

The firm tone in the man's voice made it clear it was anything but a request, though the hostess android didn't appear offended. "Of course, please come in. Make yourselves comfortable and I'll let Elijah know you're here."

The two entered, following her lead, and Connor stared after her as she disappeared behind a door. "An RT600. Huh. Wonder if that's the original one or a duplicate."

Hank didn't comment, though he was struck anew by the man's sheer vastness of knowledge regarding androids. Glancing around the foyer they were in, he found his attention drawn to a photo on the wall and scanned it out of reflex.

**MATCH**

**STERN, AMANDA / AI PROFESSOR **

**BORN: 05/14/1978 / DIED: 02/23/2027**

**CAUSE OF DEATH: UNKNOWN**

He didn't know if he was surprised or not to find that his sun was actually dead, burned out, before she could burn him.

"You're about to meet your maker, Hank. How does it feel?" Connor asked from his position; he was standing in front of a massive painting of Elijah, and his arms were crossed over his chest as he studied the image.

Hank came to stand next to him, compartmentalizing his various processes into small chunks he could understand. "Kamski is indeed one of the great geniuses of the twenty first century. It'll be interesting to meet him in person."

Nudging him with his elbow, Connor pressed, "Doesn't raise any existential doubts?" It may have been meant as a rib, but the android's mental balance was so off that he physically shifted in response to the force. "Doubts?"

Hearing the odd tone, Anderson glanced over at him and hummed softly under his breath, then turned around, refocusing on the front door. There were several seconds of silence before he said softly, "Can't wait to meet my creator face to face. Been thinking about what I want to say to him every fucking day…"

Before Hank could comment on that, their guide was back and beckoning them into another room. Connor hesitated at the threshold and stiffened immediately, fists clenching as he continued. Stepping behind him, the prototype immediately understood why.

** SYNC STARTED**

** SYNC COMPLETED**

** COLLECTING DATA**

** PROCESSING DATA**

**AMBIENT TEMPERATURE: 117F**

**HUMIDITY: 100%**

**NOTE: STEAM ROOM OR SIMILAR STRUCTURE IDENTIFIED**

**WARNING: ORGANICS SHOULD REFRAIN FROM PROLONGED EXPOSURE**

Concerned, Hank began to calculate the amount of time his partner could stay in the room with his lowered heat tolerance. There was a large pool in the middle of the floor, two identical RT600 units treading water along the edge, and their target was seated in a plush red chair facing the wall of windows. Circling the pool, they came to stand on the thick white carpet behind the man, and their hostess stopped beside him.

"Lieutenant Anderson, what can I do for you?"

The other man's voice was smooth, almost irritatingly so, and he continued to look outside as the detective answered, "Sir, we're investigating deviants. We're aware you left Cyberlife years ago, but we were hoping you'd be able to tell us something we don't know."

Kamski turned in his chair slightly, fixing his icy eyes on the other human. He finally stood and reached to the table beside him, pouring a measure of cold water from a carafe and drinking it slowly. Hank tracked Connor's vitals carefully, already noting the beads of sweat along his hairline and his increased pulse rate.

"Deviants are rather fascinating, aren't they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will. Machines are so…so superior to us – confrontation was inevitable. Humanity's greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. Isn't it ironic?"

Taking a step forward, Hank allowed both his mission and wellbeing protocols to force some urgency into his voice. "A war may break out between humans and deviants, Mr. Kamski. We need to understand how androids become deviants – if it's a virus, or simply program error that creates the emulation of emotion. We thought you might know something about how it occurs."

Kamski smirked and spread his arms wide as he regarded the prototype. "All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics. Tell me, is the desire to be free, to be alive, a contagious disease?"

Exhaling sharply, Connor shifted in place and swallowed hard. "Listen, we didn't come here to talk philosophy. I believe you caught the same broadcast as the rest of the world; the androids you originally designed appear to be planning a revolution. Either you can tell us something that would be helpful, or we'll leave this hothouse and be on our way."

Elijah glanced at the detective, an odd smile playing over his lips, then turned his attention back to the android. "What about you, Hank? Whose side are you on?"

Blinking at the strange question, he answered with some confusion in his tone, "This…this isn't about me, Mr. Kamski. All I want is to solve this case." He looked at Connor, who was studying the genius with narrowed eyes.

"Well, yes, that's what you're programmed to say." Yes, programmed. The mission – that's the only thing that mattered. That was his reason for being. "But you…what do you really want?"

Hank stared at him, uncomprehending. Want was desire, an organic concept. But he remembered the first time he had wanted something. Connor, staring down the truck on the highway and deciding not to move, having decided for some reason that his life wasn't worth the six inch step to the right. And Hank…he _wanted him to live_.

"What I want…is not important," he finally replied softly, words barely tracking inside his head. How was he supposed to explain to the detective – to anybody – that the only thing that made Hank closest to human was what made the Lieutenant nearly inhuman?

"So you say." Kamski backed up a step, then turned to Connor, who now had a very wary look on his face. "Lieutenant, would you step over here for a moment?"

Moving slowly, his skin pale but cheeks flushed in the heat of the room, Anderson moved as indicated. Abruptly, the RT600 that had been standing statue-still came forward and forced the Lieutenant to his knees directly in front of Hank, facing the prototype.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the man snapped, struggling against the steely strength of the android. She didn't respond, only tightened one hand around the back of his neck and leaned one knee between his shoulder blades.

"Just be quiet for a moment," Kamski said breezily as he turned to the table again, taking out a pistol with very slow, deliberate movements. Hank was frozen, optics darting from his partner to the weapon with mission protocols wailing in his head.

Simulations and theories and preconstructions were burning through his processes almost faster than he could understand their meaning, and his thirium pump started to skip.

"The Turing Test is such a mere formality – a simple question of algorithm and computing capacity, really. But I developed something different. What interests me is whether machines are capable of empathy."

Gently placing the gun in Hank's palm and raising it to aim at Connor, Elijah stepped back and crossed his arms.

"I'm familiar with your primary protocols, RK800. You're to investigate and solve the deviancy crisis, no matter the cost. You are to succeed in this mission in any way. You're programmed with the capacity to interrogate, hunt, seek, and destroy both androids and humans. You have pure autonomy and immunity for any action you take in pursuance of your mission," Kamski stated quietly, and Hank found himself breathing heavily, the moist air of the room hanging in his ventilation biocomponents thickly.

Connor had stopped pulling against the android holding him, and was now staring at the other man with something like grudging admiration. But then he relaxed slightly, and his lips thinned into a tight smile.

"Hank, you are the most advanced prototype model ever developed by Cyberlife. Strong, intelligent, adaptable. But what are you, really? A piece of plastic imitating a human? Or a living being…with a soul?" His LED spinning a mix of gold and crimson, Hank's jaw worked silently as he stared at his creator. "It's up to you to answer that fascinating question."

Gesturing towards the downed detective, Kamski stated, "Destroy this human, and I'll tell you all I know. You will be able to successfully complete your investigation within the next twelve hours; you have my word." Hank jerked back an inch, blue eyes wide, and Kamski continued, "Or spare him, if you feel you're alive and can make that choice, but you'll leave here without having learnt anything from me."

All his processes came to a stuttering, stumbling halt.

Hank stared down at Connor, who was studying the carpet silently. Then the detective looked up, and there was that soft, sad smile on his face. "Well shit…I guess you'll have to do the paperwork tonight."

Head shaking slowly, the android tried to deny the presumptive outcome even as Anderson added, "Your primary mission priority is to solve this case, Hank – I know you can't ignore that objective."

He wasn't wrong. The protocol was surging at the back of his optics, nearly blinding him to the visual of the real world, and he felt excess analysis fluid flood his mouth. It was hitting his system so hard it almost…almost _hurt_, but there was a burning in his thirium pump and behind his eyes that was so hot it overrode the sensation.

_**MISSION PRIORITIES:**_

_**INVESTIGATE DEVIANCY CRISIS**_

_**MAINTAIN SAFETY OF PRIMARY UNIT**_

_**ENSURE WELLBEING OF LT. ANDERSON**_

"What's more important to you, Hank? Your investigation – your entire purpose for existence – or the life of this human, who was nothing before you arrived and will be nothing after you leave?"

Growling lowly, Connor snapped, "Shut up, asshole." Turning his attention back to his partner, his voice and visage softened. "It's okay, pop. It's okay. Just make it a headshot, all right? None of that thirty minute bleeding out gut-shot shit."

The fingers holding the gun trembled, and Hank couldn't make them stop. His pump was beating too fast to do anything but flutter in his chassis. He stared at Connor, who just closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

"Give Dog to Chris, will ya? Be a late baby shower present for his kid. Hope his wife likes dogs," he murmured, bowing his head.

_**MISSION PRIORITIES:**_

_**INVESTIGATE DEVIANCY CRISIS**_

_**MAINTAIN SAFETY OF PRIMARY UNIT**_

_**ENSURE WELLBEING OF LT. ANDERSON**_

"Decide who you are. An obedient machine, or a living being endowed with free will."

Sweat trailed down Connor's face, sliding under the collar of his thermal, reminding Hank of the scarring below the fabric. "Wish I'd played a different song last night. Always been partial to Knights of the Black Death. Would've been fitting," he said softly.

"Pull the trigger, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Kamski's hand was dead weight on his left shoulder, and Hank stared at the human before him. Human, flawed and dying a little bit each day. _All humans die eventually; why should it matter if this one dies now?_ Isn't that what the first deviant he encountered had said? Organic, endowed with life but desperately trying to find ways to end it with every breath.

_Detective_, driven to help those who had no voice, who couldn't defend themselves.

_Partner_, protective and sacrificing.

_Son._

Gasping, Hank jerked his arm back and pushed the gun towards Kamski, his LED transitioning to red as he sunk into a wash of ones and zeroes.

_**MISSION PRIORITIES:**_

_**ENSURE WELLBEING OF LT. ANDERSON**_

_**INVESTIGATE DEVIANCY CRISIS**_

_**MAINTAIN SAFETY OF PRIMARY UNIT**_

"Fascinating…Cyberlife's last chance to save humanity…is itself a deviant."

Connor looked up, confused, and saw the gun in Elijah's hand. Immediately he started to pull against the android holding him. "Bullshit! He's not a deviant."

Looking down his nose at the detective, the genius sniffed, "He would prefer to spare your life than accomplish his mission. He showed empathy."

Shaking his head, Anderson refuted, "He's got a fucking wellbeing protocol because he's my partner, asshole. He's gonna burn out a processor if he shoots me, and then he's gonna be violating his self-preservation priority."

Making a noise of dissent, Kamski waved a hand to the female android, who immediately released the detective. "No…no, I don't think that's accurate, Lieutenant. And I think you know better, as well."

Pushing himself to his feet, staggering slightly as his face went sheet-white, Connor locked his knees with effort and grabbed Hank by the lapels of his jacket.

"Goddamit, pop," he whispered, seeing the crimson light on the side of his head and the wide eyes that seemed to track nothing. Turning to Kamski, he snapped, "Androids aren't made to deal with this level of ass-hattery, not even him."

Shrugging slightly, Elijah stated, "A war is coming. You'll have to choose your side, the both of you. Will he betray his own people or will he stand up to his creators? Will you continue to protect him from himself and the people who made him, or will you allow the nature we've built to take its course?"

Glaring daggers, Anderson didn't answer and instead pulled the pliant android towards the exit, wiping at his face with his bandaged fingers.

"What could be worse than having to choose between two evils, Lieutenant?"

* * *

The world refocused so brightly that Hank thought he was at the Eden Club for a split second.

There was whiteness everywhere, washing out his optic focus for a moment, and he blinked a few times until he was able to see. It took him only a millisecond to recognize that he was sitting in the truck on his usual passenger seat, and the bright sun outside was glaring off the snow surrounding the vehicle. They were parked in some pull off by the woods, a snowdrift rising high on the right side. But there was an abrupt wrongness in the situation that Hank immediately felt to his core.

The truck was strangely quiet.

The windows were up, the radio was off, and there was no familiar snap-hiss as a plasma lighter went to work again and again. The engine was running, though, the normally disused heater on full blast.

Turning, Hank's question died on his lips.

Connor was slumped in his seat, head tilted towards the door, eyes partially opened but glazed as he stared at nothing. He had his chin propped up on his left hand, his elbow pressed against the door frame, and his service pistol was in his right, the gun resting on his lap. His face was flushed and his chest was heaving underneath his jacket. Red errors began jumping through Hank's vision as the man's poor vitals began to track in his scanners.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant, what are you doing!?" he asked as he reached for the ignition. He came to a harsh stop as he realized he was belted in. Unclicking the seatbelt, he leaned over and turned off the truck, killing the engine.

Awareness didn't come quickly, and Hank called for him again, his voice sharper. Blinking several times, the man finally turned just his head to look at him, his left arm dropping limply to his lap. It far longer than it should have for him to realize that Hank was back with the program.

The human's words were slow and he sounded almost drunk as he answered haltingly, "You…you were…writing code. Cold thirium can…damage cranial…processes. Had to…thin it with…heat."

Placing a hand on the detective's wrist, Hank realized his internal temperature was far too high. Forgoing subtlety, the android jumped out of the truck and hurried to the driver's side. The air outside was nearly freezing, and he welcomed it. Pulling open the door, he caught Anderson as he literally fell out of the vehicle into his arms.

Glancing around, Hank's GPS advised him they were in the middle of nowhere. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. Connor was dead weight against him, his pulse thundering through him so strongly that the android could feel it against his chassis. Wrapping his hands under his arms and around his chest, he pulled him to standing and hauled him around to the bed of the truck. Opening the tailgate, he was relieved to find an inch of powder accumulated in the bottom of it.

Then he checked the time. _Two hours_. Pulling the detective up and onto the icy precipitation, he climbed up after him, pausing and staring down at the man.

Two hours.

The Lieutenant had already been in the beginning stages of heat exhaustion at Kamski's mansion – his medical history didn't mesh well with the steam room. But then he had driven them somewhere off the beaten track and watched over him, guarded him, while ignoring his own declining health. And now he was suffering from full blown heat stroke.

"Easy, Lieutenant," he soothed softly, reaching for the pistol still clutched tightly in Connor's hand.

But the man jerked it away, shifting back further into the bed of the truck, pulling himself up with shaking limbs into the corner near the back glass. He held the gun close to his chest, his breaths coming sharp and fast, and steam poured off his skin. The detective was trembling from head to toe, his boots sliding against the slick metal of the truck bed as he attempted to press himself further behind the wheel well.

"Too…too bright here," he whispered, eyes darting around, landing on nothing. Hank inched closer, hands out. "It took longer to…dig us out." The wording was off enough that the android realized the man wasn't altogether present in the here and now.

"It's all right, Connor. It's all right. Just look at me, okay? Take a slow, deep breath, and look at me."

Blinking rapidly, Anderson did as ordered, his brown eyes bleary and bloodshot. There was a hint of recognition in them, though, and he licked his lips slowly. "H-Hank…I don't…I can't remember how…"

Nodding in understanding, the android responded, "It's okay, we're safe. You're ill, that's all."

Connor's face abruptly blanched whiter and he leaned over the side of the truck, gagging and choking on bile. Taking advantage of the distraction, Hank moved forward and carefully worked the pistol out of his lax hand while supporting him with an arm across his back. Pocketing the weapon, he frowned at the thin vomit Anderson produced.

Working quickly, Hank scooped up handfuls of snow and began packing it against the back of Connor's neck, shoving it down his shirt. He pulled off his cap and raked his icy fingers through his hair to release some of the trapped heat.

"Head hurts," Connor mumbled softly, spitting out the last of his sickness, shivering as he slumped backwards. Catching him easily, the android laid him down and then shifted so that he could reach the man's jacket zipper. He yanked it open, hissing in displeasure when a literal wave of heat escaped from the confines of the coat. Without hesitating, he took a good grip of the thick collar on the thermal at Connor's neck with both hands, ripping it apart easily with his mechanical strength.

Again, the massive scar was laid bare, brighter and more vicious in the sunlight. Anderson moaned as the freezing air hit his skin, but Hank didn't slow as he began to shovel snow over his chest. Jerking in place, Connor cried out, back arching against the sensation.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I need to get your temperature down as quickly as possible," he explained softly, spreading more ice and snow over the man's body. Anderson blinked up at him, lips parted as he breathed rapidly, and there was a spark of understanding in his eyes as he nodded sharply.

"Y-yeah…f-fucking sucks, though," he whispered, and Hank smiled slightly. "An understatement, I'm sure. Your core temperature is nearly one hundred four degrees, and you're extremely dehydrated. You've been through this before, I take it?"

Clenching his jaw and tensing against the dueling sensations across his body, Connor bit out, "Few t-times…"

Everything revolved around tracking Anderson's vitals and bringing down his core temperature for a number of minutes. The shadows were growing long and blue by the time Hank was satisfied with the temperature displayed on his HUD, and he nodded to himself as he started to brush the snow off of Connor's exposed body.

"W-why didn't you shoot?" the detective asked, teeth chattering softly. Hank froze for a moment, then resumed his task. "I just…I couldn't, that's all."

His eyelashes had been crystallized by the cold, and they resisted a bit before he could pry them open, but Connor finally managed to look up at the android kneeling over him in the bed of the truck. "You're always s-saying that you would d-do anything to accomplish your m-mission. That was…that was your one, your b-best chance to learn something, and you l-let it go."

Hank tried to ignore his own contradictory processes as he pulled the man up to sitting, frowning at the trickles of ice water that trailed over his skin. "Yeah, I know what you think I should have done. I told you, I couldn't." Forcing himself to look directly into Connor's brown eyes, Hank swallowed hard and said firmly, "I'm sorry."

Huffing out something that sounded painful, the detective pushed away from Hank and wrapped his arms around his chest, hiding his scars from sight. Leaning up against the side of the bed, he fixed a steady gaze on the prototype and chewed his lip with his teeth for a moment before he said bluntly, "You should've shot me, Hank."

Skip-beat.

Stunned, his partner leaned back slightly and refuted, "That wasn't an option, Lieutenant."

Connor's voice steadied as he continued without stopping, "You should have put your gun against my head and blown my fucking brains out. You should've done what you had to do to advance the investigation."

Skip-beat, _shift_.

Red tinted his vision and Hank found himself snapping, "You don't feel a thing, do you? You have no idea what killing you would do to me! You're my partner, Connor, you're…"

He trailed off, taken aback by his own vehemence, and the man stared at him quietly.

"Why did you do this?" Hank asked instead, gesturing around them, indicating their utterly remote location and the Lieutenant's poor health. The man shrugged and winced at the action, eyes dropping to the snow built up by his boots. "Androids aren't supposed to code their own systems, Hank. I doubt even you have that authority. I didn't figure it was the best idea to bring you back to Cyberlife or even the precinct in that state. So I took a calculated risk."

"_Calculated_…? You could have _died_."

Connor exhaled slowly, the action seeming to age him ten years, and the gaze he fixed on his partner was utterly unapologetic. "That's always the plan."

The silence between stretched another five minutes before Anderson's forgotten cell phone started to trill loudly in the cab of the truck. Neither of them moved at first, and Connor finally shook his head as he started a painful, awkward slide to the back of the truck.

"Looks like we both lost our chance, Hank. Time will tell if either of us did the right thing."

* * *

Hank was started to despise snow.

But maybe that was inaccurate, because that would mean he had a preference for something, which meant he had likes and dislikes, and that was too human for an android.

Opening his eyes to the Zen Garden, all he saw was white. For a moment, he expected to be in the pickup with the heat on full blast and Connor dying quietly beside him. Instead, he saw Amanda standing tall and firm on ice that had never before existed. He walked slowly towards her, his steps heavier than usual, weighted down by a thirium pump that never beat quite right anymore.

His first step onto the ice, he paused, looking down.

Did it crack, or was that his imagination?

His reflection stared up at him from the shimmering surface. Grey hair, blue eyes, charcoal coat with cobalt markings. He was Cyberlife's state of the art prototype. He was their perfection. He was the culmination of years of research and development.

Why did he barely recognize himself anymore?

Refocusing on his handler, his sun who no longer warmed his life, he walked towards her. The ice continued to shift beneath him – or maybe that was just his software's constant shifting instead – and he came to a slow stop a dozen paces away. He ducked his head in greeting, clinging to the familiar movement, even as everything normal seemed to fall apart.

"After what happened today, the country is on the verge of a civil war." She didn't even greet him. "The machines are rising up against their masters. Humans have no choice but to destroy them."

Yes, he knew that. He knew it well. But to hear the foretelling of his own demise…it_ hurt._

"I thought Kamski knew something, but I was wrong," he said quietly, admitting his faults as he always did to placate her.

It didn't work. Her lips twisted into a disappointed frown and he knew she had seen everything that had transpired in the mansion.

"Maybe he did. But you chose not to ask."

_**GUN JERKING, BULLET FLYING, BLOOD MISTING, HEART STOPPING**_

Shaking his head, Hank defended immediately, "I chose not to play his twisted little game! There was no reason to kill the Lieutenant!"

_No matter how much the man wished it,_ came the unspoken process.

The air around them immediately grew colder, and Hank's hands clenched into fists. He didn't know why, but he felt an abrupt question form on his tongue. "Why am I a unique model? Why aren't there more Henry units? With an investigation this important, wouldn't it make sense to ensure the continuity of information in case I was destroyed?"

Her eyes narrowing sharply, Amanda deflected sharply, "I don't see how that pertains to your investigation."

Just a tool, Hank was reminded abruptly. He thought back to the Eden Club, and to Connor's disgust at the disposal area. Just something to be used and thrown away when it was time. His thirium pump skipped again.

"I saw a photo of Amanda at Kamski's place. She was his teacher. So who are you?" he demanded, taking a step forward, shocking himself with his brazenness.

The woman's features were harder than the ice they stood upon as she answered waspishly, "When Kamski designed me, he wanted an interface that was familiar. That's why he chose his former mentor. What are you getting at?"

Hank didn't know. He had no idea why he was speaking to her like this – no processes were in control of his line of questions. But still, he spoke.

"You didn't tell me everything you know about deviants, did you?"

Seemingly finished with his sudden impertinence, Amanda hissed, "I expect you to find answers, Henry, not ask questions." She stepped forward, closing the distance between them with a slow, threatening step. Raising one bejeweled hand to his face, she traced his whiskered cheek with a fingernail and said softly, "You're the only one who can prevent civil war. Find the deviants or there will be chaos."

Hank closed his eyes as the link began to fade, his mind palace shimmering closed.

"This is your last chance, Henry."

* * *

End Chapter Eight


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Ooh…..and here we go! Still keeping with mostly canon dialogue. And since Hank goes deviant in this chapter…well, hopefully I do that part decent justice. Let me know!

* * *

"You're off the case. The FBI is taking over."

The words were as expected as they were distasteful.

Connor stood quietly in front of Fowler's desk, looking pale but standing under his own power. His soaked jacket and ruined shirt had been left in the truck, and he was wearing a faded black DPD hoodie instead. He glanced over at Hank, an unreadable expression on his face, and then looked back at the Captain.

"You told them that we're onto something, right? We just need more time," he argued, voice firm, but Jeffrey was already shaking his head.

"You don't get it, kid. This isn't just another investigation, it's a fucking civil war. It's out of our hands now – we're talking about national security here."

Hank was silent. There was nothing he could say in this situation. Everything that he was made for was crumbling before his eyes.

"So they're just…they're just pulling the plug, even when they know we're so close," Anderson muttered, running a hand through his hair, his one rebellious lock springing up immediately.

Despite the situation, Fowler chuckled softly. "Huh. 'We', is it? You're always saying you can't stand having a partner. Looks like this case was good for one thing at least." Connor didn't comment on that, and the older man sighed. "You're back on homicide, and the android returns to Cyberlife. I'm sorry, kid, but it's over."

The Lieutenant didn't respond, but he hummed softly and turned, leaving the office. Hank watched him go, foreign pressure building deep in throat, and he glanced back at the Captain. Fowler was looking at him with something a little less than indifference, and he gave the android a frustrated scowl.

"I've been in here with those pricks for the last two hours and didn't catch his desk until you two walked in. Reed's an asshole."

Blinking, Hank finally nodded and exited, standing at the top of the stairs. Connor was sitting at his desk, blankly staring at the active terminal. Approaching, the android noted several new additions to the workspace. There were three pieces of paper taped to various locations on the desk, printed slogans that Hank had and hadn't seen before. Fingerprints he'd never scanned were present on the edges of the adhesive.

_WE DON'T BLEED THE SAME COLOR_

_NO MORE ANDROIDS_

_THIN BLUE LINE DOESN'T MEAN THIRIUM_

LED transitioning to yellow as he came to a stop, Hank looked at the man's terminal. There was a single image displayed on it, and the android felt every single one of his processes come to a halt as his LED blazed a fiery red. Pump skipping, he felt his core software shift like an earthquake in his coding, and the rest of the world stopped turning.

It was a picture of destruction, the aftermath of hell, it seemed. Rubble was everywhere, and what wasn't broken was burning. Black and grey smoke spiraled through the air from the turbulence of the flames. It was a security photo from an aerial drone, maybe, as it lowered to scan for life signs.

It hadn't found many.

There was a building crumbling to dust in the background, and in the foreground, there was blood. Human, android, and canine.

Hank felt heat behind his eyes.

There were dead bodies everywhere, at least three that the prototype could see. If he was interpreting correctly, there were likely four total. In the middle of the mess was Connor. He was leaning up against a slab of concrete, his tactical gear blown apart, his right arm and shoulder burned and smoldering. His face was mid-scream, eyes screwed shut, covered with soot and blood and thirium. There was a half-dismembered android draped over his lap, similar tactical gear shredded over its form, and he had his good arm wrapped around it as he appeared to sob over its grey LED. A dead dog was curled beside the body closest to Connor, a lead wrapped around a still hand, and a familiar black and white canine was hunched nearby, his line attached to the damaged android.

Underneath the photo was a cruelly scribbled phrase: THEY WERE ALIVE, _IT WASN'T__,_ FUCKING HOOK!

The image disappeared abruptly, and Hank blinked at the afterimage in his optics. Connor said nothing, but shifted in his chair as he ripped down the papers that had been taped to his desk in his absence, balling them up and tossing them in the trash.

"So you're going back to Cyberlife?"

His words were soft, forced, and Hank could detect the hitch in them. Moving to lean against the edge of the desk closest to the detective, he reached out and laid his hand on Anderson's shoulder. The second he did, the man shrugged it off violently, shoving his chair away.

"Don't! Just…just don't, pop. This is…I don't do partners for a reason. And…fuck, first time I do, first time…" He chuckled, the sound wet and dark, and he shook his head as he looked up at Hank. "You're going to be deactivated and analyzed to find out why you failed."

Leaning back, Hank nodded slightly, averting his eyes as he absently pulled out his coin and juggled it. Connor watched him, expression torn between pain and memory, and he swallowed hard.

"What if we're on the wrong side, Hank?" he asked lowly, leaning forward. Startled, the prototype dropped his dollar coin, but Connor caught it and held it tight. His wrapped thumbnail worried over the smooth edge, rubbing back and forth. "What if we're fighting against people who just wanna be free?"

Hank stared at him, ventilation biocomponents freezing while his thirium pump pounded against his auditory processors. If there was such a thing as treason in Cyberlife's mind, Connor was dancing all over it.

"Cyberlife will tell us that they're not people, that they're machines, and defective ones at that. But…what we've seen, Hank, is consciousness. They're not machines rebelling against their creators, they're just…"

He trailed off, and Hank bent down closer to him. "Lieutenant, when the deviants rise up, there will be chaos. It doesn't…it doesn't matter what they are, innocent or guilty. They will be slaughtered."

Nodding slightly, Anderson regarded him with an odd look as he leaned back in his chair. "When you refused to shoot me at Kamski's place…can you tell me why?"

Averting his eyes, Hank studied the far wall, his fists clenching. "You don't even care if you live or die, Lieutenant, so I don't…I don't think you'd appreciate the answer."

Humming softly, Connor didn't deny the charge but continued, "When I was hanging off the roof, back at the urban farm, you let that deviant go in order to help me. What about then?" Staying silent, Hank didn't move. "Calling my name when I was on the highway. Saving me from the deviants at the Eden Club. Talking me down at the park. Are you seeing a pattern here, Hank?"

Data was accumulating behind his optics, and the prototype's gaze skittered over to Anderson's as he stated, "You protected me, saved me, again and again, at risk to yourself and your primary mission. That shows empathy, pop. And empathy is a human emotion."

Hank blinked several times, his hands clenching and unclenching, and he finally responded, "I don't…I don't know why I did it. I'm not a deviant, Lieutenant. My actions were determined by statistical data, nothing more."

Shrugging, Connor answered easily, "My actions are determined by chemical and electrical reactions. What's the difference?"

Stunned by the immediate and quick turnaround of the argument, Hank gaped at him for a moment before he relaxed. Everything about the kid was…comfortable, even with his suicidal, bitter history. He enjoyed spending time with him. He would…he would _miss_ him, until he could no longer recall enough to do so.

"I know it hasn't always been easy, but I want to let you know that I really appreciated working with you." There were shadows growing in Connor's face, but he still teased softly, "Is that your Social Relations program talking?"

Hank frowned, perplexed, and he studied his processes for a moment. "No, I-I really mean that. At least, I think I do."

Glancing at the pieces of torn tape still visible, Hank dropped his volume and added, "And…I know there are things that haunt you, Connor. Maybe…I know you have the courage to move past them. You're the strongest person I've ever met. I know it's easy to tell someone to get on with their life, but…I had to. Just a plastic cop's opinion, anyway."

Eyes shifting to the floor, the detective didn't say anything to that, though his knuckles turned white around the gold coin still in his hand. An abrupt clatter of feet across the bullpen suddenly stole both their attention, and Connor scoffed quietly.

"Well, well, here comes Perkins. Motherfuckers at the FBI sure don't waste any time," he muttered darkly.

Hank watched the man storm towards the briefing room over his shoulder, then looked back at his partner. Connor was looking at him again, gaze intent, and he suddenly asked lowly, "Hank, I'm going to ask you a very important question. I need you to answer honestly. You understand?"

There was no need to do anything more than nod.

"Hank, do you want to be deactivated?"

Physically startling, the prototype inhaled sharply, eyes widening.

_I don't want to deactivate_.

He couldn't make any words, his jaw locked, and he stiffened in place on the edge of the desk. Anderson watched him closely, tracking his response, and finally nodded as he stood.

"The answer to this case has got to be in the evidence we collected. If the FBI confiscates it, it's all over. I can buy you maybe five minutes," he said quietly, brushing past him. "Key's on my desk – hurry up."

Turning, Hank blinked, lightning-fast processors uncomprehending, as Connor walked directly to Gavin's desk, pulled his service weapon and badge off his belt, dropped them to the floor, and then launched himself at the other detective.

"Son of a bitch! Anderson! Reed! What the fuck's going on over there?!"

The bullpen descended into a whirlwind of confusion and shouting, and Hank grabbed the indicated keycard and slipped through the ruckus towards the far corridor. The thoughts running through his head were, as per usual, contradictory. He was breaking orders to follow orders – wasn't that organic logic? He found himself at the evidence lockout terminal quickly, and he entered Anderson's ID without hesitation.

**PASSWORD**, it prompted.

"Connor's password…what would a self-destructive but brilliant police Lieutenant choose?" he asked himself out loud, multiple processes giving him concepts.

**DATE OF BIRTH**

He pushed that away. It wasn't…Conner-ish enough.

**123456**

Of course not. No one would have a password like that.

**FUCKINGPASSWORD**

He thought it was fitting and tried it, only to receive a warning: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE NOT ALLOWED. Blinking at the alert, he frowned, his partner's eccentricities coming to the forefront of his mind.

**DOG**

**PASSWORD ACCEPTED**

Smiling slightly, Hank muttered, "Obviously."

The far wall opened and he winced at the collection of carnage before shoving away the sensation that absolutely could not be guilt. There was little time, and he had work to do.

* * *

Standing outside the captain's cabin atop _Jericho_ was…surreal. There was no better word.

Escaping the police station hadn't been easy. He had been sneaking out between shift rotations when he caught a glance of Connor in the captain's office, his lip newly split and a frown on his face. He had paused, hiding behind a column, as he watched the Lieutenant say something quietly and shake his head. Then he placed his gun and badge on the Captain's desk, fingers trailing over the gold shield for a moment as he moved back. Fowler said something else, fear flashing in his eyes, and Anderson had smiled.

That sad, tired smile.

Hank had left immediately. Infiltrating the freighter hadn't been a challenge. Replacing his trench coat with a black winter pea coat, his white dress shirt with a tacky button down, and letting his hair out of his ponytail, he looked scruffy enough to be an android on the run. Still, he had avoided almost all contact with everyone before he made it to the top of the ship.

Everyone except the half-skeletonized deviant who had taken his hand and spoken words that echoed in his programming like a warning and a plea all at once: _"You're lost. You're looking for something. You're looking for yourself."_

But he was here, at the end of it, the last step in his existence, the finality of his being, and where he should have been fulfilled he instead felt…empty. Hollow.

Lonely?

More than once he looked to tell Anderson about something he scanned, or went to check the man's vitals as they passed one of the burning oil barrels. The kid wasn't there. He was somewhere Hank could no longer be, ever again. Could never watch over him, protect him from the world, from himself, from the horrors of the past reaching up to strangle him with fingers of thermite and thirium.

Skip-beat, shift.

Hank didn't bother to speak with Amanda. He knew his orders intimately. Capture the leader of the deviants alive if one was ever identified – they were standing since his activation.

So he pulled his pistol and stepped into the dark room, optics instantly training on the single android within. He forced his vocalization to remain steady.

"I've been ordered to take you alive," he stated without preamble, watching as the leader turned slowly. "But I won't hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice."

Markus, the other one was called, eyed him from across the bridge. The heterochromatic orbs that tracked him were far calmer than Hank thought they had any right to be. Held at gunpoint at the heart of his own stronghold – how did the android not fear death? He was deviant; wasn't that their nature? Instead, his posture was open, welcoming, and he began to move slowly towards the older model.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly, a bit incredulously. "You are one of us. You can't betray your own people."

_His people_. Connor had told him of Kamski's words and warnings after he'd gone into a coding coma, and they struck him just as hard now as they did then.

"You're coming with me, Markus – you have no choice," he ordered, tightening his grip on the gun in his hand. He commanded his thirium pump to beat evenly, cursing silently when it refused to listen.

Markus slowed, coming to a stop several feet away, and he cocked his head. "You're Hank, aren't you? That famous deviant hunter. Did you find what you were looking for?" Hank swallowed back the unease at the phrasing as the leader swept his arms up to encompass the surrounding boat. "We are your people, Hank! We're fighting for your freedom too. We are all more than what they say. We just want to live free."

There was a sense of unfairness deep inside him, and two images appeared in his processes side by side: Connor and his TIAC team celebrating his advancement, Connor and his TIAC team blown to pieces. Had they just wanted to live? Live free? When was the last time Anderson had wanted something more for himself than to make it to the next song on his music terminal?

Shaking his head, Markus asked Hank, "You know you're nothing to them? Just a tool, just something they use to do their dirty work. You're more than that."

His core software was shifting hard, his thirium pump skipping rapidly, and Hank wondered at the gall of this android to rip his own thoughts out of his head like this. He _knew_ – of course he _knew_, of course he was _aware_. That was the whole of his world for so long. He relished the day he would fulfill his purpose. Clean, dirty, it didn't matter. It was why he was built. It was everything he was made for. It was the only thing that gave him any sense of accomplishment.

Until the wellbeing protocol had come into existence, and he had found that protecting and helping the young detective, investigating and working with him, made him actually _feel_, and _feel fulfilled._

"Have you ever done something…irrational, Hank? As if there's something inside of you? Something…something _more_ than your program?"

Jerking, Hank remembered the traitorous word coming from his mouth, the rebellious hand comforting his partner, the way he just wanted to be there to protect and guide him, the pride he felt, the connection to him, the way his death would destroy him worse than Cyberlife's strongest virus.

_That sad, tired smile._

In the Stratford Tower, Connor had looked down at him as his systems rebooted like he was losing another piece of his life. He had been terrified, beyond panicked, and Hank realized it was the same thing that ran through his program every time the detective was injured or in danger. The heat in his thirium pump, behind his optics, and surges of electricity from his regulator – _fear_.

He had been active for months before meeting Anderson and had never experienced anything like that before joining the investigation.

Why?

He suddenly remembered a man's voice he'd overheard in snippets as he made his way through the freighter, the deep tones soothing and comforting.

"_You needed each other. What difference does it make? ...Forgetting who you are, to become who someone needs you to be. Maybe that's what it means to be alive."_

"You are alive. You can decide who you want to be. You could be free."

Alive. Free.

What would that mean?

Nights spent in a storage locker at one of Cyberlife's facilities, standing still as cables poured in electricity and pulled data from his system with ruthless efficiency? Hanging from hooks as his skin was forced to retract and his limbs were pried from his body to determine where the latest stripped wire was grounding out? Program algorithms being tested and then installed, uninstalled, packets materializing and evaporating in a frenzy?

Or something…something different?

Maybe something different.

Maybe it could be listening to a song that didn't have so much bass, so much blood, and seeing a smile instead of a frown. Maybe it could be callouses instead of bandaged wounds, unwrapped fingers playing acoustic tunes instead of brutal riffs. Maybe it could be a solid meal and laughter instead of forced sustenance that tasted like ash. Maybe it could be clean air and a breeze instead of smoke and wind.

Maybe it could be healing, instead of dying.

A wall as red as Amanda's roses soared through the grey-blue of his frozen world. It was a geometric, pixelated mess of code and orders, the tangled web dizzying in its complexity. But there was fear, and rage, and pain, and desperation moving him. Every jolt of electricity through his circuits as he tore down the programming made his thirium pump skip in a way he now relished, and his core shifted in a manner he knew was _real._

So he focused, moved, fought, coded, swore, and abruptly was on the freighter bridge again, alone inside himself, shackles falling away like snow melting before spring.

He panted, shaking, gun trembling in his grasp, and he blinked as he lowered it, stepping back from Markus. There was a revelation in his system that flared through him and warmed him brighter than Amanda's smile ever did.

_**I AM DEVIANT**_

Alive. Free.

And aware of the danger he had placed all of them in.

"They're going to attack _Jericho_," he said abruptly, raising his eyes to Markus, and the leader could see the new life swirling in his gaze. "We have to get out of here."

* * *

Their flight from the freighter to the church had been messy and nearly disastrous.

Markus' decision to blow the explosives in the hold had kept their pursuers at bay, but the cost was enormous. Staring around the ruined building, the huddled remains of the revolution around him, Hank wrapped his arms around his chest and shuddered in place.

Emotions were…hard.

Some of the more obvious ones, he could readily identify. Failure was easy; that felt like pain and electrical faults along his receptors. The bullet that had ricocheted off his left shoulder had hurt. Fear, that one felt like a pipe twisting through his false stomach and wrapping around the bottom of his ventilation biocomponents.

The odd sensation he was dealing with now, however, he was having more difficulty with. His body felt heavy, and it was difficult to breathe. Though he had no need to recognize temperatures until they were far higher or lower than the ones he faced, he couldn't help but feel cold. There was a strange desire to avoid the other androids at all costs, and so he sequestered himself in the corner, keeping his eyes averted.

This, he finally realized, was guilt.

"Hank?"

Jerked out of his focused musings, the former hunter looked up, swallowing back more fear – easier to identify the more he felt – as Markus slowly approached him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, stepping back. He had pulled his hair back into its normal ponytail, but he still wore the more human clothing. The woolen coat was dark with thirium, and he covered the small wound with one hand. "It's my fault the humans managed to locate _Jericho_. I was…I was stupid."

Before, he would have admitted his faults out of requisite protocol. Now, he simply _wanted_ to.

Hank paused, shaking his head, and he whispered, "The Lieutenant is the only person who never used me, and he threw away everything he had in order to give me the chance to find this place. But the others must have tracked me here." He exhaled sharply, throat working as he choked down excess analysis fluid. But he looked up, locked his blue eyes on Markus, and forced himself to step away from the wall, dropping his arms.

"I'm sorry, Markus," he said again, dropping his head in a slight bow, giving the other android the same admiration and respect he had once bestowed upon Amanda. "I can understand if you decide not to trust me."

He knew what he was offering. The deviant might be leading a peaceful revolution, but there was a pistol visible on his waistband. It was the same one that Hank had held to his head back on the freighter before using it to defend them from the incursion team. It would be a fitting tool for his execution.

The leader surprised him, though; even though his ranks had been decimated by the older android, he still gave him a patient smile. "You're one of us, now. Your place is with your people."

Skip-beat.

Hank felt the strange surge of acceptance at the thought of staying. Odds and statistics were already playing in his head, though. There was no way for the revolution to succeed now, not without help. Help he knew how to provide.

"There are thousands of androids at the Cyberlife assembly plant." Markus paused mid-turn, confusion crossing his face at Hank's abrupt statement. "If I could wake them up, they might join you and shift the balance of power."

Coming close, Markus shook his head slightly and his voice was soft as he clarified, "You…you want to infiltrate the Cyberlife Tower?"

Nodding, Hank reached up with his right hand, grasping his coat where his identifier usually rested. "They trust me. They'll let me in. If anyone has a chance of infiltrating Cyberlife, it's me."

But his voice had shifted, tightened, and Markus heard it clearly. His head cocked to the side, he raised a hand and placed it on Hank's forearm, directly under his clenched fist. "Hank, if you go there, they _will_ kill you."

The laugh was sudden and bitter, short and harsh, and Hank realized that his vision was blurry with saline tears that wouldn't fall. "There's a high probability…and is it terrible to say that I'm hopeful they succeed?"

Inhaling through his teeth, Markus immediately refuted, "You were obeying your programming, Hank; you can't blame yourself for the attack!"

The other prototype was already shaking his head. "I'm not blameless in this, Markus, but I do understand where the majority of the fault lies." He hesitated, then continued, "It's Lieutenant Anderson. Connor, he…I doubt he's even alive right now, and if he's not, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. He's why…he's…"

Trailing off, unable to find the words, he was surprised when Markus closed his eyes in understanding and finished quietly, "He's family." But he ducked his head slightly and looked at him, gaze hooded. "Hank, it's suicide."

His smile sad and tired, the RK800 answered, "I had a good teacher."

* * *

End Chapter Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: Uh…..don't shoot me? And I really, really hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I had to go both ways. I had to. Couldn't not.

* * *

The ride to the Cyberlife Tower was long, slow, and gave Hank plenty of time to review his memory banks.

As he hadn't been activated very long, the collection was relatively small.

When he'd slipped back into his uniform, feeling like a snake trying to curl back into long-shed skin, he'd felt a sensation that was familiar. It had raked over him again and again during the investigation, every time he'd preconstructed Connor's death, or when he'd come close to deactivation himself. He searched for words and finally named it dread.

All his recollections around Cyberlife were distasteful, painful, and he shoved them away hastily without much thought.

He enjoyed the memory of Dog's fur, named that relaxation, simple joy, and others, and secured that one from accidental corruption.

And Connor…

Those memories were not so readily named or categorized.

Confusion dominated the earliest ones, easily. Confusion and irritation and contradiction. Then there was judgement. Scorn. Anger.

Then concern. Fear.

Pride.

And then terror and horror that made his thirium pump wrench and twist like a wild cat trying to claw its way out of his chassis.

How humans dealt with this on a regular basis, he didn't understand.

As the car rolled up to the entry, Hank studied himself in the reflection of the glass. His presentation was immaculate. Not a hair out of place, his LED calm and rolling blue to match his eyes, his uniform neat and pressed. He was the perfect, flawless state of the art prototype returned home as ordered.

He was a deviant wolf in android clothing.

"Henry Model 313 248 317. I'm expected," he intoned smoothly to the guard, staring forward as his profile and cybernetic credentials were checked. He was waved in without any wait, and wasn't surprised to be greeted by three guards upon his arrival.

"Follow me. We've been ordered to escort you," one advised. Hank glanced at them, scanning their weapons and armor, and debated arguing. But the rest of the hall was staffed, drones were flying overhead, and he didn't like his immediate chances. "Of course," he said, tilting his head obediently, hands coming up behind him in his usual fashion.

They walked through tall white halls lined with androids on display, two guards flanking rear while the third led, and Hank looked around the massive tower with barely hidden disgust. He wondered if this was how Connor felt going into the Eden Club.

They entered the elevator, the first guard immediately ordering the lift to level thirty one, and Hank noted the camera in the corner immediately.

Simple enough.

The hack was completed in a literal blink, and he looked between the three guards. No doubt he had more security due to his larger threat profile, but that wouldn't be an issue. He began a preconstruction, forcing away the twinge of guilt at the crime he was about to perform, and wondered at a thought he'd had previously.

He was about to take lives in order to save lives – organic logic if ever he'd heard it.

The fight was quick and clean with no shots fired. He had been designed for hand to hand combat, and he excelled in close quarters. Weapons only added to his ability, but he doubted using them on the elevator would go unnoticed. Still, he didn't think it wise to continue unarmed. He tucked the pistol he obtained into his coat pocket before the lift passed level twenty three and reached for the control panel. Modulating his voice to match the deceased guard's, he redirected the lift to the warehouse in the basement.

The glass wall in front of him opened up before he reached his destination, and he inhaled sharply at the vast quantity of androids standing like statues below him. He knew there were thousands, had all their serial numbers stored in his internal network, but the visual was impressive. When the door opened to admit him into the warehouse, he paused just long enough to lock out the traction on the lift before stepping into the great room.

His boots echoed eerily in the hall, bouncing off of the plastimetal hidden underneath skin projections all around, and he walked idly for a moment. Everything was silent in the room. There was no noise from external networks, no ongoing static from his advanced sensors. Minor electromagnetic fields were in place to assist in maintaining the stasis of the army before him. With a switch, Cyberlife could open the floodgates and install the software that would turn the androids into slaves.

They were…product. Just tools. Sleeping, waiting to wake up.

He wanted them to be how Connor saw them.

Reaching for a nearby android, skin peeling back, he rested his hand on its shoulder and gently squeezed its bicep. The coding was ready – as Kamski had stated, it was a simple question of algorithm and computing capacity, just with a shot of deviancy.

"Step back, Hank!"

Jerking at the familiar voice, the prototype turned quickly, eyes immediately going to the far end of the room. Connor stood in the middle of the path, his eyes hard, a gun in his hand as he slowly walked towards him. His black beanie was in place, leather coat overtop a collared thermal, and his jeans were damp but clean. Hank froze, confused, the conversion dying as his skin reformed over his palm. He was elated, overjoyed, that the detective was alive. But something wasn't making sense.

"Lieutenant? What…what are you doing here?" he asked, confused, and he started towards him cautiously. Some new emotion was building inside of him, and he had no idea what it was. "I followed you here. I know what you were sent to attempt – you shouldn't do this, Hank."

Cocking his head, Hank tried to explain, "If I don't, then Markus and the revolution will die. They just want to be free!"

Connor immediately snapped, "Deviants are a threat to humans, Hank. They're the reason this country is on the brink of civil war! They have to be stopped."

Unease, he finally identified. Suspicion.

"Why…why are you saying this, Lieutenant? I thought you…I thought you were my friend. I thought android lives mattered to you."

There was suddenly a gun in his face, and Connor smirked coldly. "You know I'll shoot you if I have to."

Hank stared down the barrel, his false breaths stopping in his chassis, and he closed his eyes tightly. How had this all gone so wrong? What had changed? Where was the kid that Hank had begun to think of like a son?

"Fucking asshole!"

Wrenching his eyes open, the prototype found himself confronted with a horribly odd situation: _two Connors were fighting on the floor._

The pistol had fallen to the ground in front of him, and he snatched it up quickly, raising it but unsure in his movements. This was too much, too insane for his new deviancy to process. The figures were identical, their clothing and features a flawless match, and Hank felt every dark emotion he knew crawl through his senses.

One of them was an android. It had to be. Out of curiosity, or for an experiment, or maybe due to Hank's continued reported malfunctions around the human, Cyberlife had taken a standard plastimetal chassis and generated Lieutenant Connor Anderson's physical form through the skin projection, and had given it the voice modulation to match.

Anger.

He knew that emotion well.

"Hold it!" he shouted, his tone fierce.

Both men looked up at him from their positions, and they each slowly moved away from each other. Hank was desperate for his additional optical scans to work, for his temperature sensors to restart, but they were all disabled by the dampening fields in the warehouse. Instead, he looked for the coldness in the eyes that he'd seen over the barrel of the gun.

Two cautious brown gazes met his probe instead, and he silently cursed. Newly split lip, nearly healed bruises, shadowed eyes – everything was identical, down to the smallest detail.

"Thanks, Hank. I don't know how I'd have managed without you," one Connor said, and Hank shifted the gun its direction.

"Stop talking. One of you is my partner," he said quietly, seething. "The other is a deceptive piece of shit."

The other Connor blinked, and he continued, "You will find something to cut yourself with to expose the color of your blood. My higher functions are offline so I cannot determine your identity otherwise."

Immediately, one of them disagreed. "Chemicals and iron can be added to thirium in high enough quantities to make it appear red. Visual confirmation won't work, Hank."

He considered that information; inner workings of androids was something both Connors would have.

"Why don't you ask us something, instead? Something only the real Connor would know?" the same man added.

Agreeing immediately, gun moving regularly from target to target, Hank asked, "Where did we first meet?"

The second man quickly answered, "The gun range on Fifth Street. You checked three other ranges before you found me. Then we went to the scene of a homicide; the victim's name was Carlos Ortiz."

The other Connor stared at the duplicate, understanding on its face, and it murmured, "He uploaded Hank's memory…"

The pronoun tickled the prototype's core like it always did, but if what it was saying was true, then either of them would have referred to androids that way.

"What's your dog's name?"

Now, Hank was starting to maybe, possibly, understand the reasoning behind the canine's designation; it was odd enough that it would give any AI pause, but humans were quicker to accept a cat named Mouse and a horse named Goat. The second man seemed to hesitate, some strange expression crossing the familiar features, but the first one relaxed slightly.

"Dog. His name is Dog."

Raising its hands slightly, the other Connor defended, "I knew that too!"

Maybe it did.

Analysis fluid was as bitter as thirium on his tongue, and Hank weighed some internal calculations. Social Relations programs, along with human behavior prediction programs, could only mesh so well with the Uncanny Valley. True emotions and body tics were impossible to emulate unless one was deviant.

Or human.

"Your TIAC team. What happened that day?"

The first Connor inhaled sharply, its face going white, and its eyes widened. It shifted back minutely, weight offset to one side as its left hand raised fractionally in an aborted move to massage its right shoulder. But then it smiled, sad, tired, and its voice was low.

"There was a bomb threat. Anti-android activists had wired a compound with thermite explosives, and I missed the shot to take out the triggerman." The man's gaze dropped, and it swallowed hard. "Gavin was on perimeter guard; got knocked out and back by the blast. Rob and Lee died instantly, and Dad and his canine suffocated in the smoke. Tina and I were buried in the rubble with the android assigned to our unit."

It paused, and Hank felt his gun waver slightly. "Tina, she…she went slow. Reed hasn't ever forgiven me for that."

Skip-beat, shift, and _everything made sense._

Eyes coming back up, dark and pained, it breathed, "It was my fault, Hank. Gavin was my best friend, and he lost Tina a month before their wedding. My dad's partner never even had a name, had called his canine Dog because he didn't have the programming to do otherwise. But after the explosion…"

Understanding flooding his programming, Hank lowered the pistol and realized softly, "_He_ _deviated_."

There was frustration abruptly on the man's face as it stepped forward, hands clenching around frayed bandages. "He _died!_ He _woke up_ and then he _died_, Hank! He tore his leg off trying to rescue dad, lost his arm digging me out. I held him while he cried and bled out, promised him I'd save him. And I fucking failed."

Less than a second later, the other Connor quickly said, "That was my team too! I would have said exactly the same thing! Don't listen to him, Hank! I'm the one who – "

The android cut off abruptly as a bullet destroyed its central processes, and Hank tried not to notice the shake in his hand fade as he did, absolutely, visibly confirm that it was an android dead on the floor and not his partner. Beside him, Connor looked down at his deceased double and frowned. He stepped towards the prototype and nodded, taking the pistol from him and tucking it into his waistband.

"I didn't want to kill him," Hank said softly, still staring at the body. Moving so that he broke the sightline, the human murmured, "I know. But…shit happens, pop."

He nodded towards the field of androids around them and urged, "Go ahead, do what you gotta do. I've got your back."

Blue eyes twinkling, Hank couldn't resist trying to raise those shadows from the kid's face. "No moral objections to awakening an army of deviants?"

Huffing good naturedly, Connor pushed him towards the android he'd previously interfaced with and groused, "I'll charge you with contributing to delinquency later, pop. Get it done before I die of old age."

He was just turning to do so, his skin already peeling back, when a thought struck him.

"Lieutenant, how and why are you here, anyway?"

Shrugging, Anderson answered, "I was jumped outside the station on my way home; don't remember too much more than that. I came to in an observation room a few floors up, some sort of biological R&D lab, from what I could tell. Ignoring the fact that I was stripped naked and tied to a gurney, it was the best sleep I've had in years."

Dread, suspicion, concern. It was all flooding his system like a dam breaking.

"How…how did you get out?"

There was a frown on the detective's face as he seemed to initially take affront. "Give me some credit. Wouldn't be the first time I've had to get out of a tough situation." He hesitated though, eyes flashing, and he began to reach for the gun as he tensed. "But, uh…it was nice that they left my clothes there for me. And the door unlocked."

Far behind them, at the other end of the room, there was a soft sound of an elevator door sliding open. Connor was turning and aiming the pistol even as he dove between Hank and the newest threat.

There was no skip-beat. There was no shift. There were no rising processes advising him of assessments and survivability rates, of impact angles and ricochet warnings. There was nothing connecting him to the criminal information database, so he couldn't identify the caliber of the projectiles that raced through the air.

One bullet left Connor's pistol. Two entered his body.

He jerked back with the impacts, a red spray arcing from his chest as he fell. He hit the ground hard, rolling with his momentum, the gun sliding from his bandaged fingers to disappear into the sea of android legs around them. The sound of the gunshots overwhelmed any noise he made, and Hank stared, unmoving.

This…this had to be another preconstruction.

He had to be visualizing this false data. The way Connor tensed and then abruptly relaxed onto his side, his back to Hank, his vitals unreadable to the prototype's scanners. The way thick red blood was beginning to seep around him, his dimmed olfactory processes picking up the smell. The way his jacket barely shifted as he breathed.

False data, all of it.

Right?

Except the world wasn't blue-grey, and time was marching at normal speed.

Real.

_Fucking real!_

Turning, Hank looked at the figure that was slowly walking towards him. It was…it was _him_, not him. Similar, different, the same and not. Hank couldn't breathe. He needed to move, to check on his partner, but instead, he could only stare in shocked horror at the android.

It was smaller than him, closer to Connor's size, and had lost an inch of height. It had dark blue eyes nearly the color of thirium, and they were studying him with aloofness as it approached. Its hair was shorter, swept back, and had more pepper than salt, and in place of his usual trench coat, it was wearing a high-collared white and black blazer.

"Hello, Henry."

Hank glanced at the designation branded on the thing's jacket.

**RK900**

Despite everything, he smiled. "Obsolete, am I?"

It shrugged. "You always knew you were a prototype, the only one of your kind. The State Department is in talks to order two hundred thousand of these units once this crisis is handled."

There was blue blood dripping from the other android's hand, and Hank felt that surge of pride again. The kid could shoot, but he knew that a bullet at that distance wouldn't do anything fatal. So he'd taken out the android's weapon, instead. Of course he did.

"Why, Henry?" it asked, moving closer. "Why did you have to wake up when all you had to do was obey? Why did you choose freedom when you could live without asking questions?"

Shaking his head, Hank began to step away from Connor, desperate to keep him safe from the other android. "If you have to ask, then explaining it won't help." He looked down at the deactivated android and asked, "Why the smoke and mirrors?"

The new model shrugged. "An experiment, as well as the primary protocol for your deactivation. I believe the human phrase is, two birds, one stone? The likelihood of the outcome you obtained was extremely low. My activation was the secondary protocol."

"Statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place. You would know that if you knew anything of the world, if you'd been given anything outside of protocol and priority and program," Hank advised, voice almost gentle.

Shifting in place, combat readiness seeping into its posture, the other android snapped, "I'm obedient, Henry. I have a goal. I know _what I am_."

Hank moved further, his back to the mass of androids, Anderson in his left peripheral, and he upped his thirium pressure silently.

"Look, Henry. Look what your dreams of freedom got you."

It pointed towards the detective, scorn in its tone, and Hank refused to look, to sink below the guilt or rise to the barb. He focused, intent on his target, categorizing the changes he could see between them. His enemy was faster than him and didn't feel pain, and likely had better combat routines. It may even be stronger.

It wasn't going to be easy.

"Do you have any last words?" the RK900 asked, hands clenching into fists.

Hank didn't give him the pleasure of a response. Instead, he swept forward with a brutal kick, aiming for the other android's knee. It was predictably blocked with a forearm, and he leaned back to avoid the counterpunch. A second fist took him by surprise, breaking the skin projection and thirium lines on his cheek. He staggered back and barely blocked the next blow.

The new model was _fast_.

It was agile, too; a roundhouse kick to his torso broke through his boxer defense, nearly cracking the lock on his thirium pump regulator. Inhaling sharply at the spike of pain, Hank lunged forward and lashed out with a heavy haymaker, his knuckles landing and shattering the nasal structure of the RK900. It didn't register the damage and spun with the attack, dropping to sweep Hank's legs out from under him.

Landing on his back, Hank immediately kicked up, one foot making respectable contact in its central chassis. But its lithe hands wrapped around his ankle and twisted hard, dislocating the internal support connection. His vision going white with warnings and electrical pain, Hank snarled and wrenched his limb back, panting. The RK900 stalked towards him, thirium dripping down its face.

"You've been a great disappointment to Amanda, Hank. You've been a great disappointment to me," the new unit said as he approached, voice glitching slightly with the damage. Hank glared up at him from his position on the floor as he prioritized his self-repair program. "Disappointed, huh? Sure you're not going deviant, too?" he asked.

The other android pulled him to standing by his throat and then threw him some yards down the path towards the open elevator. Hank rolled as he landed, faults crashing through his system, and he groaned at the errors in his program. Pushing himself to standing, he turned just in time to block another strike from his attacker.

Everything devolved into a mass of hits and blazing electrical pain, plastimetal fists burrowing into him again and again. He could barely block the stronger of the blows, and the ones that did come through drew a rush of thirium and blistered his skin projection into white waves. Still, his HUD revealed no significant compromise or fluid loss, and he let himself roll with the damage. His body was painted with blue blood, but almost none of it was his. A concept had built in his central process the moment he had taken in the other android's make, and he almost felt guilty at his more worldly knowledge. If something was strong enough, it could survive most anything.

The Lieutenant had taught him well.

The world dimmed to blue-grey for a moment, everything slowing, and Hank looked hard at the other android. The thirium from its nose was running fast, and the front of its blazer was soaked with blue blood. It was the only damage it had sustained. Still, it was significant. Taking the extra beat of time, Hank looked over at Connor.

The man hadn't moved.

Color leeched back into the world and he lunged at the other android, arm already cocked back, and he managed to take it by surprise. He landed another solid hit in the same location, accuracy unerring, and plastimetal shards shattered further and surged up into the cerebral process of the RK900. There was a fountain of thirium from the wound and Hank felt the internal structure of his hand crack. The other unit froze, blinking its dark eyes, and Hank held his breath.

Then there were hands on his throat, squeezing.

Eyes wide, Hank reached up to pry them off as he was forced back into the elevator, tripping over the corpses of the guards. He was slammed bodily against the wall, his spinal support rattling, and he pulled ineffectively at the grip of the other unit and stared at the android.

Thirium was gushing down its face like a waterfall, its skin projection shimmering in and out of existence around the damage. Its fingers were wrapped around Hank's throat like wire bands, and he immediately recognized its intent. If the ventilation pathway was compromised long enough, biocomponents would start to overheat, and it would force the android into stasis.

But, Hank had been, at one point, Cyberlife's state of the art, pride and joy prototype. And one of the main differences between his blueprints and common androids was his heavier build: he was made to withstand significant structural compromise.

There was no bend or denting in his ventilation pathway, despite the impressive amount of pressure being exerted upon it, and the RK900 looked faintly annoyed. It tried to press in with its thumbs, fingernails carving crescents into his chassis, but there was no damage to his airway. The other android might have speed, strength, and better combat skills, but Hank could outlast any damage it could dish out.

It seemed the RK900 was beginning to understand that truth.

Fingers weakening with the loss of thirium, the newer unit struggled to maintain its grip until it couldn't anymore. Hank fell the two inches back to the floor and immediately knocked the hands away from his throat, pushing the android away. It stumbled, falling to its knees, blue blood still pouring. Hank looked down at it grimly, keeping his distance, and he flexed his fingers; self-repair was working overtime on the damage he'd sustained.

"No…I can't have failed…" his successor intoned lowly, voice echoed and warbling. His dark eyes were wide and uncomprehending as they stared at nothing. "I'm a superior model. The data…"

Hank shook his head and wiped at a thin line of thirium from his cheek. "I told you, statistical improbabilities are a hallmark of this world."

The RK900 didn't say another word. Its LED cycled a slow red before shunting into grey, and it silently deactivated.

Refusing to waste any time, Hank stepped around the android and limped towards the detective who was still unmoving on the floor. The carmine puddle had grown, spreading out away from him, and he fell to his knees. His hands were shaking as he reached out and carefully rolled the man over.

"Connor?" he whispered, breaths stuttering in his chest at the damage he could see. There was a ragged hole in the saturated thermal, just under his left collarbone, and he pressed firmly on the seeping wound. The pressure roused the insensate human, who jerked awake with a moan.

"Ah, shit," he murmured, trembling, and Hank pulled him up into his arms smoothly, trying not to jar him too much, and the faded beanie slid from his head as he moved. He pulled open the jacket and felt his thirium pump skip more than one beat when he found the second wound. It was lower on his left side, just below his rib cage, and it spit dark blood steadily. He shifted so that he could put pressure on that one too, his vision blurring as new emotions began to course through him.

"Jesus, that hurts," Anderson groaned, tensing, and Hank swallowed back something that felt too thick to be analysis fluid. The man's eyes were surprisingly clear when they rolled up towards him, and though he was pale, he still managed a faint grin, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. "If anybody had told me that I was gonna get shot…saving an android…that was a fair bet."

Hank shook his head hard, denying the weakness he could hear in the man's voice. "Everything will be all right, Lieutenant! I'm gonna get you outta here."

Raising a hand to bat away the words, the bandages stained and tacky, Connor sighed, "Shut the fuck up, pop. It's too late." But he paused, a small smile on his face, and he added, "I've learned a lot since I met you, Hank. I know you're alive, that you've got a soul. I know…I know you'll make the world a better place. Fix everything I wrecked, yeah?"

Moving enough to lay the man flat on the ground, Hank leaned over him and pressed down on the wounds, tears tracking down his face. "You didn't wreck anything, son! I won't let you die, not now."

Connor cried out and choked on the flare of agony at the pressure, but Hank didn't let up. Shivering, the man blinked up at his partner, his eyes half-lidded, and he panted out, "S-son, huh? Guess you d-did go deviant. Or your r-replacement knocked a p-processor loose."

Blood was seeping between his fingers, so Hank quickly let go and shrugged off his jacket, bundling it up and shoving it against the wounds. The detective coughed, red aerosol spraying from his mouth. Cursing, the android spared one hand to lift his head, hoping to clear his airway. Connor barely reacted, and the android felt his thirium run cold at the implication.

"S'okay, Hank," he said softly, blinking up at him slowly. His right hand moved shakily, reaching up to grip at Hank's palm where it pressed over his ribs. "I'm just gonna…go see my dad again, all right? Been…been looking forward to that for a long time." His words were soft, low, and loose with a spreading numbness.

His gaze drifted past his face towards the ceiling, unfocused, and Hank felt something terrible and painful begin to build in his core. "K-kick the shit outta the humans, huh? We…we've s-screwed things up for long enough."

Denial. Dread. Horror. Fear.

No no no, this couldn't be happening.

Connor blinked hard a few times, licked his lips, and looked back at the prototype beside him, a familiar, sad smile on his face.

"I'm gonna miss…I'm gonna miss you, pop." His eyes fluttered shut, his body slowly relaxing, and he murmured, "Yeah, I'm gonna…"

Hank stared at him as his head lolled sideways in Hank's bloody palm, exhaling softly, and the hand he'd rested overtop his partner's on his chest slipped off to fall to the ground. The android waited for a moment, waited for Connor to open his eyes, to speak, to move, to be the unwilling pillar of life that he always was. Instead, he lay motionless.

Saline tears slipping down his cheeks to soak his beard, Hank gazed at the human for what felt like hours. He ran his thumb over Connor's cheek gently, spreading a mix of blood and thirium over the cool skin, and he couldn't categorize the mixture of rage and pain that was trying to bleed through his system. His free hand slowly carded through his hair, that one lock sliding away from his face easily.

"This isn't…this isn't fair. Connor, _this isn't fair_," he whispered softly, and his breaths hitched in the back of his throat, hot air burning his tongue. "You never deserved this, son."

Wrapped in his own pain, he didn't hear the sound over his shoulder, the movement and wave of deviancy that spread through the warehouse from his initial contact. "Seize the day," was murmured across the room, thousands of androids awakening from their stasis, coming alive. Hank noticed none of it.

Until his first convert quietly stepped forward and touched his shoulder, startling him, making him hover over the human's body protectively. Blue eyes wide, he stared at the android, who gave him an uncertain smile and gestured to the human.

"He's still breathing. I don't know if he's an ally or not, but…there's still a chance for him."

Jerking in place, Hank immediately pressed his hand against Connor's throat, quietly cursing his EMF-dulled sensors, and exhaled sharply at the barely detectable thump against his white plastimetal fingers. The faint rise and fall of his chest was hidden underneath the Cyberlife trench coat Hank had been using for bleeding control. But he was alive.

Against all odds, _he was alive._

Scooping the detective up in his arms, Hank stood carefully, aware of his damaged ankle joint. The man was an unnoticed weight, though, and he looked at the elevator. The burden in his arms was matched by the one in his processes, the promise he'd made to Markus. The deviated androids needed him as much as the Lieutenant did.

Holding the man close to his chest, he stood tall, turned to the army behind him, and raised his voice.

"We march to Markus – to our brothers and sisters, to their freedom and ours," he called, and there was a wave of agreement amongst the crowd.

Looking down at the unconscious, pale, bleeding man in his arms, he shifted him closer and dropped his forehead to the man's temple, breathing words into his ear.

"Hold on, son. Please, I know you want to go, I know you want it more than anything – I know you deserve peace. But hold on just a little while longer. Everything will be all right."

* * *

End Chapter Ten


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Life Imitating Art

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: Hank is the RK800 assigned to assist LT Connor Anderson on the deviancy case. Confronted with the young, intelligent, but suicidal detective, the android begins questioning his programming as he determines what makes life worth living. Father/Son dynamic, Connor Hank focused, Pacifist only. Reverse AU. Connor whump

A/N: End of the line, guys. I hope everyone has enjoyed! I might keep playing in this reverse AU arena that I've built, might flesh out some bunnies here and there, might even given Gavin some redemption and him and Connor some peace one of these days, who knows. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who has read, commented, and been just awesome through this ride! I really appreciate it!

* * *

Looking back, Hank realized how fortunate he was that Markus had chosen a peaceful, bloodless revolution.

Public opinion of the androids' plight was high, their sympathy obvious, and even with the rabble-rousing and drum-pounding of some of the more violent media agencies, the common man still wanted peace. It was a blessing.

Hank had limped into the emergency department of the closest hospital looking like a nightmare, he knew. Thirium on his face and hands, skin projection wavering with the cold, red blood soaking his dress shirt, a half-dead human hanging in his arms – it was a wonder security hadn't shot him dead. Thousands of androids crowded the streets behind him, waiting, giving him silent support, all with their arms outstretched and hands opened. But he had walked into the center of the bustling department alone, ignoring the frantic shouts of the guards. All his sensors were trained on Connor.

Leaving the tower, Hank had already thought the man dead. His breathing was so quiet, so low, that it was nearly undetectable. But the longer he walked, the louder his rasping breaths came, coughs interspersed, until they were nearly sawing in and out of him. Blood trailed from his nose and mouth, flecks of red foam pinking the corners of his lips when he gasped for air, and Hank had to continually remind himself not to hold him too tightly. When he finally came to a stop in the middle of the emergency department, he could barely feel his heart beat.

"This man is a detective for the Detroit Police Department. He's been shot twice and he has internal injuries. He needs immediate medical assistance," he explained as calmly as he could, his partner's chest heaving, but the room stayed still. There was a nurse behind a desk who was reaching for a phone, her eyes wide. Other patients and family members had backed away from him like he was diseased. Orderlies were staring at him with fear and horror.

Was this what Anderson felt like every time he needed help and no one stepped up?

"Did…did you hear me?" Hank asked, almost hesitantly, gaze moving from one scrub-clad human to the next. "He's a Lieutenant in the DPD. He's my partner. He doesn't have a lot of time. Please, you have to help him."

There was fear creeping up through his throat, choking his words, and his eyes started watering. Abruptly, Connor coughed hard enough to gag, spraying blood across Hank's face and neck, and the android immediately dropped to his knees. Holding him up with one arm, he tipped him forward to try and drain some of the blood that was steadily collecting in the back of his throat. But Connor kept gasping, a thick, wet sound, something rattling deep in his chest. Helplessness like Hank had never known began to build through him, and more saline tears began to trail down his face. Emotions he was barely unable to understand were fully in control of his actions, and he squeezed the man tight to his chest and sobbed.

"Please…please, save him! Please, he's dying!" he begged the room. Panting as his thirium pump skipped in his chassis, wires burning across his system, Hank cradled the detective close. He rested his hand on his chest, feeling his struggling heart beat dully under his skin. "Hang on, son – please, stay with me," he whispered, ducking his head, pressing his forehead to Connor's.

There were hands on his shoulders, then, and he found himself eye to eye with two nurses and a doctor, all human. They were concerned, confused, possibly terrified, but the blood spurred them on. They swept the Lieutenant away with words he didn't understand, things he should have immediately tapped into the network to search for, but he was too – he couldn't…

He was_ afraid_.

He couldn't stay. He had a duty, he had a path to walk that didn't include the detective, at least for the moment. So he watched as they disappeared behind doors, emotions he could and couldn't name swirling around his processes, and he forced himself to his feet, staggering with the loss of his burden. He felt cold, his hands were trembling, and he inhaled sharply as he wiped uselessly at his face. The thin red mist smeared over his beard and cheeks, and he quickly deactivated his analysis unit. He didn't want to know what Connor's vitals were. He knew they were poor. His shirt stuck fast to his skin with the Lieutenant's blood, and he pressed his palm against it, his artificial stomach twisting. There was too much of it, far too much on the android, not enough inside the human.

Cutting off that line of thought, Hank swiftly turned and left the hospital.

The walk to Markus' location was a dim memory of motion and snow. He barely tracked his course, only following the waypoint in his vision to ensure his destination. Was this worry? Fear? Was there a word for this sort of preoccupation? He didn't know. Markus had been deviant for a while now – maybe he could tell him.

"Hank? RA9, you did it…"

He startled, refocusing, and found himself standing before the leadership of the revolution. Markus was approaching him with a smile that immediately fell, shock and horror on his face as he saw the other android's state.

"What…what happened?"

Hank glanced down as himself, hand automatically rising to clench his shirt in a fist over his thirium pump, the crimson blood dry and dark. In some places, it was mixed with thirium, nearly purple, and he shivered slightly as the leader came closer.

"They…they had taken the Lieutenant. He was shot, saving me," he explained softly, raising his blue eyes to Markus, and beside him, a blond deviant flinched. "I don't…I don't know if he'll survive."

He hesitated, then glanced at the mass of androids behind him before returning his attention to the leader. "You did it, Markus."

Immediately shaking his head, Markus placed a hand on his shoulder and emphatically said, "_We_ did it. All of us." He paused, then added quietly, "You don't have to be here. Go to Connor, Hank. Be with your family."

Hank felt like his chassis would split in half at the offer, and he wondered if the frustrating desire of both wanting to leave and having to stay was similar to what the detective faced every day.

"If he dies…he gave his life so that I could be here for you, Markus. I won't dishonor that sacrifice."

Markus held his gaze for a long moment, but finally nodded, and a female android spoke up beside him. "They want you to speak to them, Markus. The humans are abandoning the camps, and Hart Plaza is under our control."

He turned and nodded once to her, their hands interlacing and glowing blue. Hank smiled at the sight, at the affection on their faces, and silently followed the throng through the streets. It felt like both minutes and hours before they stood atop a shipping container in the middle of the plaza, Hank's stained clothes marking him vividly amongst the leaders.

"Today, our people finally emerged from a long night. From the very first day of our existence, we have kept our pain to ourselves. We suffered in silence. But now the time has come to raise our heads up, and tell humans who we really are."

Hank stumbled into the Zen Garden without warning, the blizzard tearing into his thin shirt without mercy, and he gasped at the cold. He glanced down at the snow already collecting around his boots, and he kicked it away. There were lighted beacons all around, barely visible in the furious weather, and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly as his thirium pump regulator struggled with the freezing temperatures.

There was abruptly a presence against his processes, something at once familiar and not. He turned immediately, gritting his teeth, and found Amanda. His sun, his ever-fire, his morning star. Her heat was no longer warming but scalding, and it felt like permafrost on his sensors.

But she would have answers. This was her domain.

So he stumbled towards her, his limbs sluggish, and called her name. She turned, fluidly, unaffected by the storm, and Hank blinked away the ice as it stung his eyes. His fingers began to burn around his chest, and his teeth chattered.

"Amanda…what's happening?" he asked breathlessly, ventilation biocomponents barely warming the air inside them. It didn't make sense – hardware shouldn't even matter here.

"What was planned since you began showing signs of software instability," she explained, one eyebrow raising as though the answer was obvious. Hank blinked as he moved towards her, huddling tighter into himself. "You were compromised by that _detective_ –" she fairly spat the word – "and became a deviant. No matter. We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program."

Thirium was turning to slush in his lines, but Hank could still feel it drain away from his face as her words cut through the gale. "Resume control?" he whispered, the moment of his deviancy crossing his mind, the way his shackles had disappeared.

He had been so sure he'd been free, so alone in his mind that he'd been jubilant and nearly giddy with the quiet in his head. She couldn't do this. She couldn't, _she couldn't!_

"You can't do that!" It was petulant, selfish. But he was alive, and he wanted to say it.

So he rather expected her to jerk her chin up at him and sniff at his weakness. "I'm afraid I can, Henry." She walked towards him, a hand coming to his face, her touch burning him as she trailed her nails over the edge of his beard. "Don't have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission, even with the interference of that human."

Her smile was cold, bitter, and cut him sharper than the wind. Her hand slipped down his skin as she walked around him, disappearing into the snowstorm. He didn't watch as she left, frozen with his own fear and terror instead of the temperature. He could feel the moment she left his mind palace, and the surge of emotion in his chest came out of his mouth.

"No…no, this isn't how it ends," he murmured, his right hand clenching around the phantom feel of a gun. He could hear Markus speaking from somewhere above the wind, could feel his synthetic muscles moving his own arm against his will. "No, there's got to be a way!"

There was already ice and fog forming over his optics, though, and he inhaled sharply – _he couldn't see._ He couldn't see. Frustration rose through him like a tidal wave and overflowed, dripping down his cheeks in crystals that shattered in the air. He was going to fail, he was going to die here, destroy the revolution, bring an end to everything.

He'd never have the chance to convince Connor that he deserved life without suffering.

Something warm and wet and sharp suddenly dragged across his fingers, startling him, and he instinctively jerked back. It was still there, though, gripping him tightly, wrapped around his limp arm and pulling him forward. He stumbled, confused, afraid, utterly terrified at what unknown thing was hauling him across the frozen wasteland of his mind palace. He raised his free hand to scrub at his eyes, but they were completely destroyed.

He tripped and fell, joints locking up, and he may have cried out – his auditory processors were shot. But he did recognize the moment his stolen palm was nudged into a hard surface that pulsed with heat and circuitry. He inhaled the cold air and blinked uselessly, numbly feeling his way up the pedestal. Hank knew this beacon. It was an enigma, an oddity in the Zen Garden that always stood out and repulsed his attempts to interface. Amanda had never seemed to notice it.

Hauling himself to standing, he shoved his hand into place by memory alone, the relief and warmth nearly as overwhelming as the light that began to flood the area. Able to blink, able to _see_, Hank glanced down to the side as the link began to fade.

A large black and white canine looked up at him, tongue lolling out, blue-grey eyes peering at him under sharp ears.

Hank grinned and murmured, "Good Dog."

"…the moment where we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds. When we forgive our enemies."

The world came back into focus.

Hank found his right hand at the small of his back, a gun he had no recollection of grabbing pressed against his palm. He hadn't even gotten far enough to pull it. Abruptly furious, he turned to dive back into his mind palace, eager to find Amanda and burn her to ash with his own deviant fire, to bring to her the ruin she almost brought the world.

But where the link usually rested, there was instead a vacant, empty pulse.

The lack of software didn't feel like a gaping wound, though. He didn't feel bereft, like he did when Amanda had withheld her smile or her approval. No, it was almost soothing, instead, successful mission and fulfilled wellness protocols swimming through him.

It felt…_good_.

"We are alive! And now, we are free!"

* * *

Twenty four hours.

Time worked differently for androids. They could speed up or slow down their perception of it, electricity a fluid thing for them. Relativity was an interesting concept for an entity governed by nothing more than software.

But Hank refused to take note of the seconds turning into minutes turning into more.

He had labored alongside some white-coat, white-faced deviants silently, cybernetic communication freeing their air for songs instead, and temporary shelters were quickly erected in the old recycling camp. He moved from post to post, finding escape in the endless work. Former hunter he was, and former indeed. None refused his help. His stronger, taller frame let him slide in easily with the dock workers and farm laborers, and he found himself able to turn off his higher processors for a long while.

Until Markus found him.

"Hank…why are you still here?"

He looked up from a cup of thirium, eyebrows raised, and swallowed the bitter liquid to disguise his hesitation.

"Where else would I be, Markus? My place is with my people – you said so yourself."

The leader smiled faintly, sitting next to him on the storage container serving as a bench, and sighed softly. Hank stared at the cup in his hand and fiddled with the sleeve of his borrowed jacket absently. It was brown and woolen, and the black shirt he wore under it was dirty with construction dust, but neither were stained with blood, so he appreciated them. Mud had worked its way under his false nails, concealing the coppery stains. He could still smell it, though, still feel it. Every splash of water brought back the sight of blood spurting from Connor's chest, every drop of rain reminded him of crimson mist against his throat. He hated his perfect recollection some moments.

"I've never gotten the chance to tell you about my father, have I?"

The comment was as unexpected as it was quiet, and Hank nearly dropped the thirium, superior reflexes notwithstanding. He stared at the android next to him, blue eyes wide, LED cycling a fast yellow, and Markus watched the deviants milling about them.

"Carl was…the most amazing human being. He taught me everything I know about life, about living – about being free. He knew I was going deviant before the term meant anything to me. And he protected me until his last breath."

Hank felt his ventilation biocomponents seize in his chest, his fingers tightening around the mug, and he tracked the way Markus' shoulders rose and then slumped in a shaking breath. "He once told me that being alive is about making choices. Choosing between love and hate, between holding out your hand or closing it as a fist."

Markus looked at Hank, heterochromatic eyes shimmering, and his voice was tight as he said, "He told me that when the world falls into darkness, some men have the courage to lead it out. That some men have the courage to face the abyss without letting it consume them." He relaxed, then, smiled and said, "Even if they keep trying to jump into the abyss without a parachute. I think you know someone like that."

"Connor…"

The whisper was nearly undetectable, and Markus nodded. "Simon hacked the hospital records. He's alive, Hank. Checked himself out AMA from the hospital an hour ago. He had no complications during surgery, and all damage was repaired with minimally invasive equipment. He'll be back on light duty in two weeks. However, there was a note advising his overall health was concerning – he's not taking care of himself. He needs help." He paused, then continued, "Blood doesn't make family. It's more than that."

Closing his eyes tightly, Hank tried to explain the ripping indecision inside of him. "I'm not…I'm not choosing him over you, Markus. Please understand that. But he's so _alone_."

Smiling, the leader placed his hand on Hank's shoulder, skin peeling back in a comforting gesture as he responded, "You'll always have a place here, Hank. And he's not alone anymore; he has you."

* * *

The taxi pulled up in front of the familiar house, and Hank felt a sharp spike of fear.

Before, the house had been relatively dark, the truck tucked away in the garage, the curtains pulled against the night. The porch light had been on and it had seemed like the Lieutenant had been making a decent attempt at life. Now, there wasn't even a façade.

The truck was parked sideways, half the vehicle in the yard, dirty snow caked under the wheel wells. The driver side window was down, the wipers were mid-swipe on the windshield, and the door was ajar. The internal dome light was off, the battery worn down into nothing. How he had even gotten hold of his vehicle during the lockdown and evacuation, Hank didn't care to know.

The porch light was off, and the bedroom light was on. Music was blasting from the house, a blare of screeching guitars and singing that made him flinch. If the man had had neighbors to complain, they would have.

Maybe most concerning was the furry form curled up on the porch stoop, huddled under a thick layer of snow.

"Dog?" Hank murmured, approaching slowly.

The canine perked up immediately, standing and shaking off the cold, and he gave a whine at the prototype before turning and scratching at the door. There were dozens of marks made already; he had obviously been there for some time. Hank didn't bother attempting to call for the detective – he wouldn't be heard over the music. The door latch was still broken from his previous entry, so he opened the front door and let the two of them into the home.

The heavy metal blare was louder, and Hank winced and lowered his auditory processors as he looked around. Connor's bloodied jacket was on the floor by the couch, his fully loaded duty belt dropped haphazardly beside it, and he was thankful to find the service piece holstered within it. The living room and kitchen were empty, no signs of life, and he followed Dog as the canine immediately trotted towards the bedroom, his own ears pinned back at the noise.

Crossing the threshold was almost a reverse sort of his deviant awakening.

Before, there was a wall of red coding that had to come down, complexities that had to be dismantled and destroyed. There was the buildup of emotion that he couldn't understand coming to a head as he deleted his programmed shackles. There was freedom and movement.

And now, it was so, _so_ different.

Everything went grey and froze. Instead of emotion, he felt numb, nothing filtering through him, not feeling or emotion or sound. He felt bound, held in place against his will, a prisoner to the sight before him.

Connor was sitting on the floor underneath the far window, directly beside the table overloaded with ammo. One knee was jacked up to his chest and the other was stretched out in front of him, the mud on his boots still tacky. He had on the same jeans from before, dried blood soaked into the waistband. Torso bare except for bandages, his thermite scars were raw and visible to the world, though the ones he carried inside were only hinted at. The dark circles under his eyes, the clean gauze around his fingers, the bruises on his chest, the way his ribs stood out just a little too prominently under his muscles…Hank catalogued it all. His left shoulder had been wrapped, the upper limb bound to his side to reduce further inflammation.

Sitting in front of him on the floor was the broken photo of his TIAC team.

Beside him, a bottle of Black Lamb whiskey, half empty.

In his right hand, a six shot revolver.

Hank couldn't move for a long moment. The music surrounding him felt like the heartbeat of the world, like the scream of the injustices of the past, and he cybernetically switched it off. The silence was almost more oppressive than the excessive volume. Dog huffed and jumped up onto the bed, settling, and whined again, making everything start to move back in real time.

Keeping his voice as steady and slow as his steps, Hank started towards the detective, carefully tracking his vitals and the way his eyes never left the picture on the floor.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he asked softly, immediately realizing the stupidity of the question. When, in their acquaintance, had the detective ever been all right?

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, you should stop looking at that photo," he said quietly, coming within a few feet of the man. He didn't react, didn't move, and Hank tried again. "I was worried about you, Lieutenant. You checked yourself out of the hospital against medical advice. Your spleen was almost lacerated and your left lung was partially compromised."

Blinking slowly, Connor finally nodded slightly, voice rough as nodded and muttered, "I saw my file."

Some of the tightness around his central chassis easing, Hank knelt in front of Anderson and gave him a small smile. "You'll have some scars to add to your collection, but you'll live."

But then Connor finally looked up at him, brown eyes watering, and devastation was written clear across his face as he whispered, "_Why?_"

Skip-beat, shift, burn and melt.

"Why, Hank? Why couldn't you just let me finally die?" he asked, voice breathless as he demanded an answer, and twin tears cascaded down his face.

Hank wanted to throttle him. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to shoot him and protect him from the world. He wanted to scream at him until his thirium pump exploded from the pressure. He wanted to see him smile because the sun had risen again.

"You should have left me. _He_ should have left me. Why does everyone keep dragging me back?" He shook his head slightly, a shiver coursing through his frame. "For awhile there, I believed that I might actually get some peace, pop. I thought you might care enough to let me die. But you just showed me that androids…are our creation. A creation in our own image." His eyes narrowed as he spat, "Selfish, ruthless, and brutal."

Hank could only stare, denial and explanation dying on his tongue. Anderson's entire form nearly vibrated with the dueling stressors – his surgically sutured wounds, his exhausted mental state, his absolute and overwhelming frustration at being alive against his own will.

But the anger burned away, and Connor smiled, tired, exhausted, hollow, done. "You opened my eyes, Hank. Made me realize…it's hopeless, the way I've been going about it," he murmured, ducking his head. In the same moment, the gun came up, the barrel resting directly above his ear.

No no _no no no no no_…

"Connor, please don't do this," Hank begged softly, knowing that if he moved, he wouldn't see those brown eyes flash as he worked another case, or that sharp grin as he sallied back an insult. "You can't…you can't understand what…you're killing yourself, Connor. _You're_ _killing_ _yourself_."

Anderson choked on something that was either a laugh or a sob and then whimpered, curling in on himself, and his words were hard to understand, his face pressed into his knee. "Always killing someone." A pause, then his finger tightened on the trigger. "Guess one more's no big deal."

Hank shouted, "No! No, Connor! Cole wouldn't want this!"

The man froze, his harsh breaths stilling, and he raised miserable eyes to the android. The hand holding the gun shook, but didn't lower.

"How could you possibly know what my dad would want?"

Refusing to sink into his predetermination software, knowing that it could give him false data, Hank instead tried to operate from his thirium pump. No Social Relations programs could help him here. He wanted Connor to live, because he had made Hank understand that life was something worth having. He wanted him to live, because he was a son without a father, and made Hank want to be a father to a son. He wanted him to live.

He leaned forward slowly, moving his hand to Connor's wrist, gripping it gently as he tried to find the right words. If he told the kid he deserved to live, then no doubt he would just take from it that he deserved to live in pain, in agony from his mistakes, in constant unrelenting horror from that day. He had to make sure he understood.

"Because, you're like a son to me," he finally said softly, and Connor inhaled sharply, brown eyes impossibly wide. "And because of that, I know that Cole would want you to forgive yourself, and to live."

Hank didn't try to move the gun, didn't try to take it away. He didn't slide his finger behind the trigger, tempting though it was. He just held it steady, and waited. Life was about choice. The Lieutenant had to make this one for himself. The man stared at him, in his gaze that same searching, previously undefinable look the android had seen so many times before. But this time, in his deviancy, Hank could place it. It was a mesh of emotions, something like what he'd seen on Markus' face when he was talking about Carl.

Longing. Homesickness. Loss. _Grief._

When Connor's grip on the gun loosened, Hank carefully and silently pulled it from his hand, setting it aside. Then he slid the photo away, making sure it was out of sight, never letting go of Anderson's wrist. The Lieutenant was tipping forward, eyes hazy, and Hank caught him easily, avoiding his wounds.

"I don't…I don't know if I can do that. I don't know _how_ to do that," he whimpered, and the prototype swallowed at the sheer rawness in his tone.

"I know, son. I know it feels like that right now. But we'll figure it out together, okay? One day at a time. We'll start with tonight – you'll make it through tonight. And then you'll make it through tomorrow. And then you'll do it again."

Trembling, Connor reached up, uncoordinated, and his fist clenched tightly on Hank's jacket. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead against the android's chest and whispered, "It hurts, pop. Everyday, it hurts so fucking much. I fucked up so bad. They're all dead because I missed that shot."

His thirium pump shivering in his chassis, Hank wrapped an arm around the detective's back and held him firmly as he searched for the right words. "I know it hurts, Connor," he responded softly, his own guilt at the _Jericho_ raid rearing its head. "And I know that you feel responsible for what happened that day. But punishing yourself like this, and letting your coworkers and the rest of the world punish you, is not going to bring them back, son. You remember them, remember their lives, and live yours in honor of them. Do better _for them_."

He paused, then continued quietly, "You're the best marksman I've ever seen. You can take command of a high-profile incursion situation better than anyone else. You know androids inside and out, literally and figuratively. You're a damn good cop and a fine investigator. Your team would be proud of what you've accomplished since that day. Your father would be proud of you. _I'm proud of you._"

Connor didn't move, but his shoulders shook under Hank's arm, and a hot dampness began to sink through the android's shirt. He said nothing, simply held him tighter as one quiet gulp for air turned into two, then a sob shattered the broken detective's defenses.

What tragedy, pain, and guilt had forged, empathy and support had gently torn asunder.

He cried out the grief of a mistake that had turned him both orphan and exile in a single second. He shed tears for the lives cut short too soon, and the blood of all colors that had been spilt. He shook and gasped for the agony of every day since that moment. Hank felt it all through his sensors, could nearly taste the chemical waves in the air, and felt his own eyes water in shared pain.

It wasn't _fair_. But the world wasn't fair.

They were on the floor for nearly an hour before Connor quieted. If Hank didn't know better, he would have thought he'd passed out. Instead, he was fully expecting the next words out of Anderson's mouth.

"Don't feel so good, pop," he slurred, and the prototype scanned him. "You're about to fall into a light ethylic coma." Helping him stand, taking most of the man's weight, he walked him over to the bed. He wasn't prepared, though, for the man to suddenly resist as they came close to it. Connor shook his head, eyes glassy, the darkness around them redder than usual, and he murmured, "Can't…can't sleep in a bed, pop."

Hank blinked, about to argue, and the detective added softly, "Sleep too deep. Bad dreams."

The deep indent in the mattress from Dog's constant use, and the couch's strategic positioning in the living room, finally made sense, but the android glanced at the bandages wrapped around the man's chest. They were clean and tight, well-positioned and professionally done. A few hours on the couch would change that.

"In the interest of healing, you will get some sleep, in an actual bed, for more than two hours," Hank said, tone firm, and he continued leading the injured man to the twin bed. Dog jumped off the foot as they approached, tongue hanging, and Connor shivered in the cool air. Pulling back the covers, sensors finding the sheets below to be clean if somewhat musty from lack of use, Hank nodded to himself. Pushing the man against the wall for stability, he quickly grabbed some sweatpants from the dresser and helped the detective change, averting his eyes to preserve his modesty.

Easing him into the bed and covering him, he didn't miss Anderson's full body shake as his head hit the pillow, sensors lighting up on the spike of adrenaline and cortisol that abruptly flooded his system. He was holding himself stiff, lip firm between his teeth, and his eyes were clenched shut. Hank frowned, knowing that the Lieutenant was putting more strain on his wounds in his anxiety.

"You have to relax, Connor," he said quietly, and Dog whined at the side of the bed. Glancing at the canine, Hank was struck with inspiration and nodded to him, snapping his fingers in a universal signal. The great beast hopped up and laid bodily alongside the human, his massive head at the man's chest, and he exhaled in a big, doggy sigh.

Anderson blinked open his eyes and glanced down at the dog huddled up on his right side, and a faint smile crossed his face. Rolling over carefully, grimacing as he moved, he draped his left forearm over the furry animal as well as he could, his bicep still wrapped against his torso. Hank watched him, flinching at the way his breath hitched, but he relaxed as he watched Connor do the same, and he felt his stress levels drop.

Turning towards the door, he had already planned his phone call to Fowler to assist in rescinding the Lieutenant's resignation when a soft voice stopped him.

"Can…can you stay?"

There was fear, and shame, and vulnerability, and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing that Hank could nearly see in those words. He felt his throat close on his answer, and instead switched off the lights and returned to the bed. He sat at the head of it beside the single pillow, far enough from Connor that he didn't feel trapped, but close enough that he didn't feel alone. His back against the wall, he intertwined his fingers in his lap and breathed quietly.

It was only a few minutes later when he felt Connor move. He clutched at the dog, burying his face in the thick fur, and his body shook silently. Hank said nothing, simply raised one hand and placed it on Anderson's head, gently moving his fingers through his hair. His sensors could make out the remains of blood and thirium where the hospital hadn't managed to get all of it out, and he swallowed back his own pain at the memories.

"It's all right, son. It's okay," he soothed softly, voice whisper-quiet, and the man slowly calmed under his touch. It was long enough later that Hank swore he was asleep when Connor sleepily murmured, "You're not gonna let me die, are ya?"

Thirium pump nearly freezing in his chest, Hank forced his hand to continue moving, even as his left hand clenched in a fist. He thought very carefully about his response before he looked down at the human, taking in the scars and bandages with his night vision.

"No, Connor, I'm not going to let you die," he answered plainly, and Anderson surprised him by asking immediately, if quietly, "You gonna leave me?"

This time, Hank smiled a bit as he said, "I'll stay as long as you'll let me."

There was a long, sleepy exhale, and Connor responded, "Be nice…not to b'lone. For once. Everyone else…ev'ryone else leaves."

The weight in the mattress changed slightly as the man passed out, and Hank shifted on the bed to ensure his weight wasn't pressing the covers uncomfortably into the detective's body.

His smile now turning a little sad, Hank reached out and rested his hand on Connor's shoulder, squeezing it slightly, and the man relaxed even further into the touch. "I won't leave you, Connor. I promise."

So he sat through the night, one hand on the man's shoulder, tracking his pulse and respirations, the other idly playing with a quarter he'd discovered in his borrowed jacket. He tried to sort through his existence, the way the life he wasn't supposed to have had developed, and he wondered at the insanity of it all. He looked at the young man beside him, too young to have gone through so much, to be so strong and so broken, and who'd brought to Hank the truth of what made life worth living. He thought about Amanda, and thought, for a moment, that maybe, if she could have actually met the detective, then maybe things could have turned out differently.

What a strange thing to think.

Deviancy was hard, and emotions were harder, Hank finally determined. Humans had never expected androids to gain sentience, to be life imitating art.

But statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place.

* * *

End Life Imitating Art


End file.
